


homecoming

by taywen



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Asexual Daud, Character Death, Gen, Low Chaos Daud, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9877928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: With the latest murder - the first beyond Serkonos - the only connection that all of the Crown Killer’s victims share now is their opposition to the Empress. But that doesn’t mean Corvo or the Empress is behind their deaths.It’s a mystery. Daud hates mysteries— and he owes Corvo his life; he owes Emily Kaldwin for murdering her mother before her eyes. These killing are obviously meant to destabilize the Empress’ rule, and if Spymaster Corvo is spread too thin to uncover the killer’s identity, someone else will have to do it for him.Daud goes back to Serkonos, turns over a new leaf, falls back on old habits, picks up some new ones, gets a job and investigates the Crown Killer. More or less in that order.





	1. sailing from another world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estora/gifts).



> shout out to estora for indirectly inspiring this and then blatantly enabling me. THANKS. SO MUCH. ~~seriously tho thank you <3~~
> 
>  **warning for** : canon-typical violence/mindfuckery surrounding the Crown Killer murders, including gore, cannibalism, mutilation and character death. these do not appear for a few chapters, and I will bump the rating/put these warnings in the notes of relevant chapters, but I just want everyone to go in knowing what to expect later on :')

Cullero’s streets are packed with vacationing Gristol citizens, an inescapable fact that Daud spies as soon as he disembarks from the ship. _Dunwall_ citizens, to be more accurate, most of them wealthy. Seeking refuge from the plague. They’re the only ones who can afford an extended stay abroad— and they’re also just about the only people who could afford to hire the Knife of Dunwall and demand that the man himself treat with them.

Daud keeps his head down, trying to get his bearings. He’s been to Cullero before, on a job when he’d first made a name for himself. He has a decent memory of the layout of the upscale areas of the city, several years out of date, but that’s where most of the Gristolians are likely to be staying in any case. He turns in the opposite direction and starts to walk.

The very air tastes different here. There’s pollution, yes, but not to the same extent as in Dunwall. A pall of smoke had hung over the Empire’s capital, a constant reminder of the crematoria working day and night to keep up with the casualties of the rat plague. The very air had seemed diseased, a fact that Daud hadn’t noticed until he was several days out at sea and realized that the air he breathed tasted _clean_.

A familiar, spicy aroma emanates from a cafe on his right. Daud pauses as his stomach growls, glancing through the front window to see a mostly Serkonan clientele, then goes in and orders some of whatever’s giving off that delicious smell. He takes it to go, eating it as he walks through Cullero’s streets in search of a place to stay where he won’t be recognized.

The food is comforting. Daud isn’t much for cooking, and while a few of his men had had some talent for it, they could never seem to get the balance of spices quite right when they tried their hands at Serkonan dishes.

For several guilty moments, Daud wonders how his men are faring back in Dunwall. He doubts Corvo Attano had killed any of them - there’d been no bodies left behind as he methodically dismantled Burrows’ supporters either - especially since the Royal Protector spared Daud himself. But Daud had severed the arcane bond and left without a word, the wounds from his duel with Corvo poorly-dressed and aching; he’d barely remembered to grab the bag he’d had packed for days, and his carefully-hoarded coin.

He still can’t quite believe it when he wakes up every morning, still breathing. If not for the lingering pain, he might mistake this for some kind of afterlife.

Not that Daud thinks he remotely deserves any kind of peace when he dies. That thought keeps him grounded as well, and constantly wary of the Royal Protector appearing to finish what he started. Daud had asked Corvo for his life, but he hadn’t expected Corvo to give it to him, and Daud still doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it now.

But Daud doesn’t regret taking the first ship he could find past the blockade. His men have the skills to take care of themselves; many of them were in far worse situations when they joined his ranks.

As the sun begins to slip below the horizon, he finds himself on the poorer side of the city. There aren’t so many Gristolians here. The people he sees in the street are residents of Cullero itself, or visitors from other parts of the country on business.

There are wanted posters bearing his face throughout the Isles, but he’d had more than enough contracts in Dunwall alone to keep him busy over the past few years, to the point that he’d essentially stayed in Gristol. Hopefully, that means no enterprising Serkonan will recognize his face and try to turn him in to the authorities.

He goes into the first inn he comes across and asks after a room. As they negotiate the price of Daud’s stay, he watches the owner for any signs of recognition. When none comes, he allows himself to relax slightly as he takes the offered room key. A slow sigh of relief escapes him as he locks the door, followed by a laugh that promises to be tinged with hysteria should he allow it past his lips.

He does no such thing, but he does drop his bag on the floor and promptly collapse onto the bed. Sleep comes swiftly, and with it, dreams.

* * *

Daud’s dreams have been troubled since he killed the Empress. If he doesn’t relive that suspended, brutal moment when his blade slipped between her ribs and the realization of her imminent death flickered across her face, he’s revisiting the countless murders that he’d played out across the Empire over decades or stuck wandering an empty Void. The dreams of dueling Corvo lessened after the man spared Daud - a decision that remains baffling - but were replaced by graphic images of Corvo choosing vengeance instead.

The dreams about the Empress are the worst. The screams of her daughter and the shouts of her Royal Protector and that faint, pained gasp from the Empress herself, seem to ring in his ears long after waking.

But he opens his eyes, his breath harsh - though not so loud as to drown out the cries from the nightmare - and realizes he is back in Serkonos, not the city he had nearly broken and that had broken him in turn. The pall of pollution and despair that seemed to hang over Dunwall is absent in the southernmost Isle. As he gasps in lungfuls of fresh, clean air, the frantic pounding of his heart gradually slows.

That’s not who he is anymore. He hasn’t taken a life since the Empress. He will never take another life. He left that life behind him.

* * *

News of Emily Kaldwin’s coronation breaks the third morning following Daud’s arrival. The people seems happy with the news. The general consensus suggests a cure for the plague will be found within the month. Daud has his doubts about that; it isn’t as if the new Empress is going to come up with a cure herself. But she’ll reduce or abolish the harsh security measures implemented by Burrows, surely, and allow Sokolov to dedicate himself to finding a cure instead.

The combination of relief and disbelief that Corvo had left him alive and (mostly) intact, and the familiarity of Cullero’s atmosphere has driven Daud to spend as much time around others as he can. A reminder that he still draws breath, and a distraction from the confusing tangle of his thoughts in idle moments. He takes his meals in the common room, enjoying the food and taking in the presence of other people who have no idea who Daud really is.

A Gristolian family sits at the table nearest to Daud’s. He has his back to them, to minimize the odds of them seeing and recognizing his face, but that does little to tune out their conversation. He tries, vainly, to focus on finishing his lunch.

“Why do we have to stay _here_?” the child whines. ‘Child’ is perhaps too generous - they must be nearing adulthood, if they haven’t reached it already. Not that Daud can tell from their behaviour. “I know we’re low on funds at the moment, but can’t we just return to Dunwall now?”

“Do you want to catch the plague?” their mother hisses. “Of course we can’t go back now!”

“This place is a dump!” Daud half-expects to hear a foot stomp accompany that petulant complaint, but none is forthcoming. “The food is horrible!”

“It’s not what we’re used to, darling,” the mother says soothingly, the effect ruined by the obvious stress in her voice, “but we’ll make do. And don’t you prefer Cullero’s lovely sun to Dunwall’s gloomy clouds?”

“I don’t care about the stupid sun! At least the other hotel had decent food. This meal is too spicy, I’m going to be sick!”

Daud resists the urge to tell them to be quiet. This is his second chance, an opportunity for him to change. Turn over a new leaf. Violence and intimidation are no longer acceptable, especially not for something as trivial as a spoiled noble’s whining.

“—surely the Empress will find a cure soon,” the child’s saying. “Perhaps she’s found one already, and the news simply hasn’t reached us yet!”

“Lady Emily is doing everything in her power, I don’t doubt,” the mother says. “But we must be patient, darling.”

“Why are you so quiet, Father? You’re staring—”

Daud doesn’t stiffen, but it’s a close thing. He also doesn’t look up from his meal, or give any other indication that he’s listening (however unwillingly) to their conversation.

The father hushes his irritating spawn. “It’s nothing,” he says, but he sounds even more tense than his wife. He keeps his voice low, difficult to hear over the general merry din of the room. “I only thought— but there’s no way _he_ would be here.”

Daud curses internally, mopping up the last dregs of the sauce with the crust of bread. He swallows it quickly and rises, pretending not to see how the man the next table over stiffens at the sudden movement. He keeps his face averted as he takes his plate and cup to the counter, then heads upstairs to his room.

What belongings he’d brought with him from Dunwall are still mostly packed. Some spare clothes, mostly, and a modest quantity of loose coin. He’d deposited the rest in the bank the morning after he reached Cullero, and kept the banknotes for the difference tucked away on his person. He’d also kept a small supply of weapons: his wristbow, several types of ammunition, three stun mines. He doesn’t intend to use them, but it would feel stranger to go without. Billie’s book, dog-eared and slightly water-stained from its time in the Flooded District, is always close at hand.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising how little of true value Daud’s accumulated over the years. Everything, except the book from Billie, can be replaced if necessary. He can earn more coin if not steal it outright, and coin can buy him more weapons and munitions. His clothes are rather ill-suited to the climate, and the red coat is probably too distinctive in any case; he’ll have to replace them soon in any case, should probably have done so already.

Daud secures everything in the plain rucksack he’d picked up after stopping at the bank and goes to settle his bill. He follows the main highway west, stopping only to buy a map of Serkonos and some provisions.

* * *

The traffic thins as Daud strays further from Cullero. Most of the landscape is taken up by mile upon mile of grapevine, orderly rows stretching out as far as the eye can see. Daud keeps to the edge of the road, wishing he’d thought to purchase a hat to keep the sun off his head. Horse-drawn carts and carriages pass him occasionally, sending up clouds of dust that make him sneeze.

He steps in one of the Void-damned beasts’ shit, and tries to scrape the worst of it off on the sparse weeds cropping up at roadside. The stench lingers, somehow more offensive than crawling through the sewers of Dunwall to carry out missions. It seems out of place here, a reminder that Serkonos is not so idyllic as it seems.

The wound Corvo had carved into his side, the deciding blow to their duel, starts aching not long after that. It’s healing well, thanks entirely to the mark; Daud’s dressing of the wound isn’t as meticulous as it should be. His pace slows to accommodate the pain, and it’s at that point he realizes someone is following him. Their footfalls are soft; it is the swiftness of their steps that catches his attention.

A few other people had left Cullero around the same time as him, but they’ve all gone down country roads that branch off from the highway or left him behind, outstripping his leisurely pace. The person following him could simply be taking a hike— but when Daud quickens his steps, his pursuer does the same, maintaining the same distance behind him.

Daud waits until a bend in the road and a small but convenient copse of trees gives him a moment to escape unseen. He draws on the power of the mark to transverse into one of the trees, perching on a sturdy branch. The mark flares warm and familiar; he hasn’t used it since he boarded the ship out of Dunwall, but there’s no time to mull that realization over now.

A gasp precedes a sudden, louder burst of footsteps, and a scruffy child runs into view. Clad in clothes that have probably passed through at least three different owners before reaching the current wearer, with ragged, shaggy hair that looks like an inexpert hand took a dull knife to it, Daud’s first thought is that they must be a street urchin; probably an orphan as well. He catches a glimpse of brown eyes wide with alarm as the child looks around wildly, but their unruly bangs obscure the rest of their face.

This child is so far from what Daud was expecting that he remains frozen in the tree, disbelieving, as the child darts around the area, peering under bushes and behind trees. At length, they collapse beneath the very tree hiding Daud with something like a sob, panting for breath.

“Damn it!” They rub at their eyes, subsiding into angry mutters directed at themselves and at Daud. As he listens, Daud realizes that the child had wanted to find Daud so that they could— learn from him.

They’re hardly the first urchin to track him for that purpose - Billie trailing him halfway across the rooftops of Dunwall is the most extreme example that comes to mind - but this child is definitely the youngest. The Knife of Dunwall would have taken them on as a novice without qualms, but that’s not who he is anymore.

A loud sniffle from the child below interrupts his thoughts.

 _Damn it all_. Daud scowls, acutely aware of his still-healing wounds as they begin to really pain him in protest of his prolonged crouch. He transverses down, appearing in front of the child.

Their head snaps up immediately, their entire face lighting up when they see him. It’s not the reaction he’s accustomed to— even the ones who sought him out usually had some measure of wariness towards him. The utter lack of alarm is disconcerting.

“It _is_ you,” the child, a boy of perhaps ten, breathes with obvious awe. “The Knife of Dunwall. Daud.”

So much for the locals not recognizing him.

“That’s not who I am anymore,” Daud warns him. “I don’t kill people any longer.” It’s the first time he’s voiced the thought aloud but it— feels right.

“Oh.” The boy is momentarily crestfallen, but he perks back up almost immediately. “But you can still sneak around and stuff! So you can teach me how to do it too, right?”

“What?” He’d said nothing about training the boy—

“I’m Sylvio. You’re going to Bastillian, aren’t you?”

He has vague plans of following the coast to Bastillian, but—

“Must be, you would’ve taken the road south if you were headed to Karnaca.” Sylvio’s nodding to himself, apparently unconcerned with Daud’s lack of input on the subject. “I guess you could be headed to Saggunto instead?”

“Now, wait—” Daud starts.

“Daud— can I call you Daud?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to be recognized.” _Again_.

“Master, then?”

“No,” Daud says flatly. He isn’t anyone’s master anymore.

“Well, all right. I think we should be close to the next town. That’s where people stop sometimes on the way between Bastillian and Cullero,” Sylvio says with surprising authority for his apparent age.

Daud gives up and pulls out the map he’d bought earlier. The sun’s close to the horizon, and they don’t have a lot of daylight left, so finding a place to stop is a good idea. He doesn’t have supplies for camping on the side of the road; is, in fact, woefully ill-prepared for an extended journey of any sort, from his physical state to the supplies he’s brought with him.

“This town?” Daud asks, pointing it out on the map.

Sylvio looks at it blankly. “I guess? I can’t read.”

Daud hides his frown at that. The last sign he’d passed had said he was fifteen miles from the town. That was about two hours ago.

“We’d better be going then,” Daud says, tucking the map away before returning to the road.

Sylvio beams, trotting after him. “So I can come—”

“And tomorrow I’m taking you back to Cullero,” Daud adds severely.

“Oh.” Sylvio ducks his head as he falls into step with Daud’s longer stride. Despite his obvious disappointment, he doesn’t lag behind or complain about the pace. With the boy so close, Daud can see him swipe at his eyes a few times, but neither of them breaks the silence as they walk.

About an hour later, they crest a rise and see the town before them. It’s a modest place, with a decent-sized inn and a couple of shops mixed in with the houses. Some lights have already been lit, glowing softly against the coming evening. They stop there, taking it in.

“Look,” Daud starts to say at the same time as Sylvio goes, “Can I—”

The boy’s eyes are red-rimmed but clear as he looks up at Daud.

“After you,” Daud says, because he might not be a paid killer any longer but that doesn’t mean he’s a good person.

“I don’t have anything in Cullero,” Sylvio blurts out, his hands fisted in the hem of his shirt. “So if you’re going to Bastillian or Saggunto, can’t I come with you? I’ll leave you alone after, just, please—!”

Void take it all. Daud rubs his hand over his face, grimacing. “Fine,” he bites out. The journey will be a few weeks, and maybe he _can_ teach the kid a thing or two before turning him loose in Bastillian. And then he won’t have to feel guilty about it.

He grunts as Sylvio hugs him, squeezing his waist so hard he might as well be hanging on for dear life. It hurts his wound, but Daud doesn’t complain; he pats awkwardly at the mop of the kid’s hair with his right hand.

“Um,” Sylvio says, drawing back. “You’re kind of sweaty—” Except his right sleeve is stained red where it had pressed against Daud’s side. The kid looks concerned by this fact, but not like he’s going to start screaming or crying about it. That would’ve been promising back in Dunwall, had Daud still been on the fence about recruiting him or not.

“Huh.” Daud lifts his arm and twists to look at his left side, ignoring the flare of pain. The red of his coat does seem darker there. The pain had seemed to be increasing steadily, but—

“You’re hurt?!” Sylvio suddenly pokes him in the side, unfazed by Daud’s yelp. His fingers come away red as well. “Why are you— Give me your bag.” He tugs at one of the straps, trying to pull it off Daud’s shoulders.

“Stop it, the town is right there—” Daud tries to step away, but Sylvio’s grip on the bag only ensures he’s dragged along with him.

“Just give me the bag—” He manages to get one strap free, and the combination of the bag’s weight and his own drags it down off Daud’s other shoulder. They hit the ground with an audible thump, the impact sending up a small cloud of dust.

“Are you all right?” Daud asks, concerned in spite of himself. That’s a bad sign. His track record with the Whalers means he already knows that he won’t be kicking the kid to the curb when they reach Bastillian.

“Am _I_ all right?” Sylvio struggles to his feet, both arms wrapped around the bag and eyeing Daud like he thinks he’s going to take it back. The pack is nearly as big as the kid. “Am I the one _bleeding_ through my shirt and coat?”

“It’s not that bad—”

Sylvio ignores him and starts down the hill. “I hope you have bandages in here! What’s in here anyway, it weighs a ton.” He glances back over his shoulder, eyes wide. “I mean, it’s fine. I can carry it no problem.” He quickens his steps, to the point where Daud thinks he’ll overbalance from the weight of the bag and tumble down the hill.

“You’re going too fast,” Daud says, only partly because his wound is now seriously throbbing. As if acknowledging that he’d bled through the dressing and probably torn a good portion of his shoddy stitches open again makes the pain come more strongly. The boy slows obligingly, though he keeps several steps ahead of Daud.

They make it to the inn without incident. Before they go inside, Daud checks his coat again. If he keeps his arm down, the darkened patch of red fabric isn’t too noticeable and can probably be passed off as sweat.

“Oh, yeah! Here, Mr. Knife.” Sylvio holds something out.

Daud’s face twists in disgust. “Mr Kni—” He snatches up his coin pouch, checking the contents reflexively. “When did you—”

Sylvio just smiles up at him, all innocence, and pushes through the door to the inn, still clutching Daud’s bag in his arms.

* * *

It turns out that the kid is _eleven_ , which he informs Daud in tones of great scorn when Daud makes the mistake of calling him a ten year old. He carries out Daud’s instructions on how to properly dress a wound with care; it isn’t the first lesson Daud used to teach the street kids he took in, but it’ll serve him better than the particulars of how to wield a knife.

Sylvio’s already proficient at pickpocketing. He makes a game of it, much to Daud’s annoyance, palming Daud’s coin pouch, or the bonecharm tucked in his pocket, or, early on in their journey, stealing Daud’s belt and everything on it. How the brat managed that, when Daud had been moderately wary of his light fingers already, Daud still hasn’t figured out, but he doesn’t manage it again. (He doesn’t have to, he made his point that first day when Daud turned to ask him something and found the kid smirking proudly, Daud’s belt and its contents slung across his chest like a bandolier. Daud hadn’t even noticed it was gone.)

So Daud helps Sylvio refine his stealth instead. He buys him some clothes that don’t set him so apart from the other travelers on the road. Most people eye a scruffy orphan with distrust when they pass him in the street; with relatively new clothes that are only a size or two too large, they don’t bat an eyelash. Sylvio watches him haggle for prices with wide eyes, taking everything in. He can argue with a black market seller like a seasoned denizen of the underworld, but dealing with more legitimate shopkeepers just as likely to call the guard as look at him was beyond him before he met up with Daud.

Daud teaches him to read when they stop for the evening. The book Billie left him isn’t great for a beginner, but the other alternative is the worn copy of the Seven Strictures that every inn seems to have, so _Ports of Call_ it is. It’s slower going; Daud’s no formally-trained tutor, but Sylvio’s enthusiasm makes up some of the difference.

“Who taught you to steal?” Daud asks one night, after Sylvio had slowly read the section about Cullero, stopping only twice to correct himself. The day’s haul is spread out on the floor— a silver pocketwatch, a couple of bracelets and two wallets. The men who’d kidnapped Daud in his youth had had all sorts of criminal activities going on, but none of their pickpockets could have held a candle to this skinny eleven year old.

Sylvio’s proud smile slips, and he busies himself with tucking his spoils away again. His hair hangs around his face, hiding his expression; he refuses to get it cut, and after the fifth time Daud’s given up hinting about it. He combs it now, at least, so Daud chalks it up as a victory. After a moment, he murmurs, “My brother.”

There’s been no mention of Sylvio’s family, if he ever had one. Apparently he had.

Daud makes a non-committal sound, acknowledging Sylvio’s words but not pushing for more.

Sylvio remains kneeling on the floor, even after he’s cleaned everything up. “That’s why I wanted you to teach me.”

Daud frowns, not following.

“He— stole from the wrong people. Some noble family from Dunwall. They had private guards and—” Sylvio’s hands tighten into fists. “My brother wasn’t much for fighting.”

“I don’t kill anymore,” Daud says, even as something in his chest twinges to hear Sylvio’s halting story.

Sylvio exhales, leaning back on one hand. He shoots Daud a look. “I know that _now_. Anyway, I couldn’t’ve paid you even if I fleeced every dumb tourist in Cullero. So I thought maybe you’d train me instead, and I could do it myself.”

“I definitely won’t be teaching you how to fight now.”

“You were gonna—” Sylvio’s on his feet in an instant, eyes wide and beseeching. “I’m too small for a sword but that knife you keep tucked under your shirt would work—”

“How do you know about— That’s not the point, the point is, I’m not teaching you!” Daud growls.

“Please,” Sylvio says, dragging the word out. “Please, Mr. Knife!”

“Stop calling me that.”

“I will if you teach me!”

Daud groans and busies himself with putting out the lights. “Good _night_ ,” he says, a little desperately, hoping that will be the end of it.

(Sylvio steals his knife the next day and nicks himself badly with it. Daud’s halfway through lecturing him on how to hold a blade _properly_ , having already made him clean the thing - after bandaging the cut - when he catches sight of the little brat’s self-satisfied expression.)

* * *

They reach Bastillian eventually. The journey probably shouldn’t take more than a month, but between Daud’s injuries and accounting for Sylvio’s slower pace (mostly the former) it takes nearly two months for them to reach the northernmost city in Serkonos.

The city reminds Daud of Dunwall— albeit a more pleasant, healthier Dunwall. Bastillian is focused more on industry than Cullero; it even has a modest slaughterhouse and oil refinery. The handful of gangs that operate out of the city are kept in check by a strong contingent of guards, overseen by an officer from the Grand Guard. Most of the elite of Serkonos is based in or around Karnaca, and the few that live in Bastillian are content to keep to themselves without feeling the need to throw their weight around, as they did in Dunwall.

Daud rents a tiny room at a hotel in the middle of the city. His coin is draining faster than he’d like; Sylvio eats a lot, and now that he’s around to insist Daud take better care of his wounds, he’s had to pay more for medical supplies. He almost finds himself missing Sokolov’s Elixir, though since its absence is due to the lack of rat plague infecting the city, he can’t make himself feel more strongly about it.

Sylvio keeps pickpocketing hapless passersby, and Daud spends a not-insignificant amount of his time fencing the more valuable items. Sylvio could do it himself, but Daud doesn’t want him taken advantage of or worse. It’s nothing Daud hasn’t done before - helping themselves to a particular piece that caught their eye on a job was standard procedure for the Whalers - but he can’t escape the thought that he’s just falling back on old habits. Can they be considered old if he hasn’t even given them up yet?

But he’s not killing, he won’t take a life again except as the absolute last resort, and he can’t just leave Sylvio to fend for himself either. The kid can read now, and his writing isn’t half-bad, but that doesn’t mean Daud can just abandon him. An orphanage is out of the question; Sylvio’d just sneak away, his success ensured now that he’s had Daud’s tutelage to improve his stealth, and probably get into trouble trying to track Daud down.

It’s an impasse that Daud tries not to dwell on; at night, when he wakes from dreams of past victims, he can only bring himself to passively regret it. The knowledge that he’s teaching Sylvio how to live without resorting to assassination is a balm against his guilt. It isn’t perfect, but some alternatives are far worse.


	2. how can I keep you

Naturally, as soon as Daud makes tentative peace with the situation, something has to come along and upset the balance.

“Dau—!” The cry transitions abruptly into a yelp as Rin— the speaker is interrupted, probably by an elbow in the side or a kick to the shin courtesy of his companion.

Daud stops dead in the middle of the street, half-turning at the familiar voice before he remembers himself. He definitely doesn’t know who just tried to call out his name, nor who stopped the speaker from getting it all out.

“You know those guys, Mr. Knife?” Sylvio’s peering back, having no compunctions about Daud being recognized.

“No,” Daud lies, ignoring Sylvio’s doubtful look as he keeps walking. “And don’t call me that.”

“You said I can’t call you your name so what else am I s’posed to call you?” It’s a familiar refrain by now, but someone cuts in before Daud can say his next line.

“Well, some of the younger ones used to call him ‘Dad’.”

An arm drops around Daud’s shoulder, reeling him in tight against Rulfio’s side as the man offers him a deceptively pleasant smile. Great. Daud doesn’t bother slipping out of his grip; Rulfio and Rinaldo would just chase him down, and while he has the advantage of the mark, Rulfio is a stubborn bastard. Better to just get it over with.

“You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” Rinaldo says plaintively, appearing on Sylvio’s other side and cutting off the remaining avenue of escape, should Daud have been willing to take it.

“They never did,” Sylvio says, squinting up at Rulfio suspiciously.

“Sure they did. I mean, it was always an accident or a joke, but it happened. Right, Rinaldo?”

“What are we talking about?” Rinaldo stops rubbing exaggeratedly at his side and perks up at the prospect of jokes.

“All those times the novices called Daud ‘Dad’,” Rulfio says patiently.

“Oh, yeah. It _definitely_ happened.”

“Enough about that,” Daud interrupts, hoping to cut to the chase. “Sylvio, this clingy bastard is Rulfio, and the idiot on your right is Rinaldo. They’re just passing through, so let’s not keep them—”

Sylvio’s eyes widen, a grin breaking out on his face as his head swivels between the two men. “You’re _Whalers_ ,” he breathes.

Shit.

“Well, not since our illustrious leader cut us off and disappeared without a word,” Rulfio says, lightly enough that Daud knows he’s really pissed about it.

“Everyone thought he was dead,” Rinaldo agrees.

“I took my things—” Daud starts to protest.

“The Royal Protector robbed us blind on the way through, most of us assumed he’d done the same to your quarters,” Rulfio says.

… _Shit_.

“I— er, some of us even cried over you,” Rinaldo says.

“That’s ridiculous,” Daud protests uncomfortably. Before this moment, he’d been certain that none of his men would be so upset at the thought of his demise. They’d been loyal, but—

“Thomas was inconsolable,” Rulfio adds ruthlessly.

“Oh, he’s your second, right? Mr. Knife?” Sylvio’s almost bouncing up and down in excitement. At least he’s enjoying the new information, and not Daud’s suffering.

“Aww, you’ve been talking about us?” Rinaldo sounds genuinely touched.

“You’d think you could’ve sent a letter or something. Left a note, for fuck’s sake.” It’s strange to hear Rulfio cursing, especially in such a mild tone. If they weren’t in public, with a kid, Rulfio would probably have torn a strip off him by now.

“That’s true,” Rinaldo says, starting to sound annoyed himself. “Why didn’t you at least leave a note?”

Daud means to say that he didn’t owe them anything (a lie) or that they should’ve known the dissolution of the Whalers was coming (closer to the truth, but still an excuse) but what comes out is, “I couldn’t believe he left me alive.”

Silence reigns over their little group. Daud stares straight ahead, putting one foot ahead of the other mechanically.

Rulfio exhales gustily, his arm sliding off Daud’s shoulders. “Un-fucking-believable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but lets it go.

“The inn’s that way,” Sylvio says a few minutes later, pointing, as Rulfio makes to lead them down an alley.

“We have an apartment,” Rinaldo explains.

“With a roof and working plumbing, even,” Rulfio adds.

“You didn’t have a _roof_?” Sylvio sounds scandalized.

“I see Mr. Knife didn’t tell you _everything_.” Rinaldo’s entirely too delighted at the prospect.

Daud bites back a groan and allows himself to be dragged along.

* * *

“So, what happened to all of the others?” Sylvio asks a couple of weeks later over dinner.

Somewhere along the line, Daud and Sylvio ended up taking Rinaldo’s room and they’ve basically been living with the pair of Whalers ever since. He hadn’t noticed it right away, and by the time he had it was too late to kick up a fuss. Besides, if - _when_ \- he leaves, he wouldn’t trust anyone besides Rulfio to look after Sylvio.

Rulfio had given him a speaking look that Daud pretended not to notice when he chipped in a third of the rent, and Rinaldo was obviously pleased when Daud paid for the groceries the following week, and they haven’t had to discuss it since.

Daud pauses mid-chew, the guilt that had faded into the background in the face of teaching Sylvio rushing back to the fore. Rulfio and Rinaldo seem well enough, despite being abandoned and cut off from the arcane bond, but that doesn’t mean the rest of his men fared so well.

Rulfio’s looking at him, his face unreadable.

“Scattered,” Rinaldo answers, shrugging. “Thomas tried to hold us together, but I don’t think his heart was really in it. A few days after—” his eyes flick to Daud briefly, then back to Sylvio, “—well, after it became obvious that Daud was gone, people just started leaving. The base in the Flooded District was even shittier without the arcane bond.”

“A few sentries were stranded on the rooftops after Daud severed the bond,” Rulfio adds mildly. “But we managed to get everyone down.”

“And Lord Attano didn’t kill anyone?” Sylvio presses. He’s been rather enamoured with the Royal Protector ever since Rinaldo explained that the man had actually taken everything of value on his way through the Flooded District. That, and the fact that Corvo managed to best Daud in a duel while recovering from being poisoned too. That story had come out after Sylvio pestered him for days about the wound carved into his side.

Rinaldo nods. “No one.”

Daud exhales, the guilt receding slightly.

“ _After_ , though?” Rulfio’s definitely pissed. “Denman convinced some of the novices to help him make a play for leadership.” His mouth twists. “Bastard’s fucking lucky Thomas decided to be merciful.”

“What about the novices?” Sylvio sounds genuinely distressed about the fate of people he’s never met.

Rulfio just shakes his head and turns his attention back to his food, attacking it with renewed vigour.

“Hobson did what he could, but Brendan and Vladko didn’t make it,” Rinaldo says. “Everyone was on edge— wondering if the Royal Protector would have the Overseers attack again, or come back to finish the job himself. Thomas thought he was being attacked by enemies, not a couple of idiots who should’ve known better.”

“But Lord Attano never—”

“They thought I was dead, Sylvio,” Daud says hoarsely. His fault, despite the fact that he wasn’t even in Dunwall any longer.

Sylvio frowns down at his plate.

“Anyway, that’s when we all decided to go our separate ways,” Rinaldo says. “A few stayed in Dunwall. I hope they left the Flooded District. The guards stopped dropping weepers into the district, but still—” He shudders.

“Are weepers really scary?” Sylvio asks.

“Pretty creepy,” Rinaldo agrees. “All pale, blood dripping from their eyes, moaning like—” He groans lowly, doing a decent imitation of a weeper’s cries.

“Hey,” Daud starts. The kid still gets nightmares about what happened to his brother and he wasn’t even there.

“Rin,” Rulfio says, but there’s a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, so Daud won’t be getting any help from that quarter.

Sylvio’s eyes are wide in his face. “Really? And they attack healthy people on sight?”

“Well, Hobson thought it was ‘cause they knew that healthy people could help them, but— basically, yeah.” Rinaldo shudders again. “If it was just one, that’s not so bad, but they like to group together—”

“All right, enough,” Daud says. “He doesn’t need to hear this.”

“Aw, but I want to—”

“No.” Daud’s tone brooks no arguments; back in Dunwall, it would’ve cowed all of the novices and most of the other assassins besides. Not Rulfio, usually, but Rinaldo for sure. Sylvio does subside, though he looks mutinous.

“Sorry, kid. You heard Mr. Knife,” Rinaldo says, straight-faced.

Sylvio scowls and pushes the remainder of his food around with his fork. Even now, after months of steady meals and no shortage of coin, Sylvio still inhales just about anything put in front of him. For the kid to have lost his appetite, the conversation must have affected him more than he admitted.

Daud glares at Rinaldo, resigning himself to comforting the kid should he wake up tonight after nightmares of weepers. He’d send Sylvio to Rinaldo, but— it’s the least Daud can do after abandoning his men.

* * *

Before Daud knows it, the anniversary of the murder of the Empress is upon them. Sokolov and Joplin release a cure for the plague that, according to the news and Gristolian visitors, is legitimate. Within a few months, the cure will have been distributed to every victim in Dunwall. It casts a hopeful light on an otherwise grim anniversary.

The timing is so auspicious that Daud can’t help wondering whether it was planned or not. But even if it was, he can’t fault the Empress and her advisors for it. The people might love Emily Kaldwin, but those of power and influence surely consider her age and lack of experience a vulnerability to be exploited. Perhaps not all of them, but Daud remembers the swift rise and fall of Havelock. The loudspeakers had been blaring the announcements of Emily’s coronation and Corvo’s reinstatement as he boarded the ship out of Dunwall.

And what has Daud done in that time? Sokolov and Joplin have produced a cure for the rat plague under Emily’s direction, Corvo has kept her on the throne and without a regent, the blockade around the city has been broken for good— All Daud can say for himself is he hasn’t taken a life, and it’s a shitty accomplishment, one that most people wouldn’t have trouble achieving or consider remotely noteworthy. He can’t even say he’s started a new life on the right side of the law; he’s still teaching Sylvio to lie and steal.

Rulfio just seems to know the bend of Daud’s thoughts. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t bat an eyelash when Daud snarls at him, frustrated with himself and exhausted from nightmares of murdering the Empress again and again and _again_. Sylvio becomes quieter, flinching when Daud raises his voice and tiptoeing around the apartment. It only worsens Daud’s mood. Rinaldo actually shouts back after a while, which would be gratifying, under other circumstances.

As it is, it leaves Daud feeling like he’s just falling back into the same patterns in a new city. Sylvio’s made friends with a couple of other urchins and he’d talked about Daud showing them a thing or two just last week, and he doesn’t _want_ that life anymore. Rulfio had been in charge of the novices for years, he’ll know what to do with the kid. The last Whaler that Daud trained personally did everything short of literally stabbing him in the back, and that only because the deception was revealed before she had the chance—

“Really? You’re just going to skip out while the kid’s out with Rinaldo?”

“You’ve been hinting that I’ve overstayed my welcome for weeks.” Daud doesn’t look up from packing his bag. He left a banknote for a thousand coin on the nightstand; with Rinaldo’s job and the money the pair of former Whalers have from their previous life, it should be more than enough to support Sylvio.

Rulfio exhales a frustrated breath. “First of all, you have, you’re the worst house guest I’ve ever met and we used to get weepers stumbling into the basement of the old base. But more importantly, the apartment on the floor below was _vacant_ and I wanted you to rent it and stop breathing down our necks all day.”

Daud grunts and shoves the shirt he’s packing into the bag with more force than necessary. He and Sylvio _had_ basically kicked Rinaldo out of his room when they’d all but moved in a few weeks after meeting up. It’s been months since then.

“Sylvio is going to cry for days. Weeks, probably.”

“He’s a kid, he’ll get over it.” Daud’s told himself the same thing often enough these past few days that he almost believes it too.

“What am I supposed to tell him? I guess I should be glad you’re not pretending you’re fucking dead again.”

“I didn’t—” Daud’s clenched fists wrinkle the pair of trousers held within them; he shakes the garment out and folds it again. “Tell him whatever you need to.”

“Not the truth?”

“You can tell him I’m a fucking idiot if you think that’ll help.”

“Well, so long as you know.”

Daud glares at him, but Rulfio just stares him down, unfazed. He relents, glancing back down at the now-packed bag in his hands. “You’ll teach him what he needs to know better than I could.”

“Maybe.” Impossible to tell from Rulfio’s tone whether he actually agrees or not.

“Send him to that school that just opened—”

“You can’t have it both ways,” Rulfio says, sharper now. “You don’t get a say in how he’s raised if you leave.”

That’s— fair. And it’s probably better this way. Daud slings the pack over his shoulders and stands.

“Just because you don’t think you deserve to be happy—”

“That’s not it,” Daud snarls, too defensive for it to be anything but a lie.

“Sure. Whatever you have to tell yourself. You’d better go before they get back.” Rulfio just sounds tired now, which is somehow worse than the thinly-veiled anger from before. He steps back, leaving the doorway open for Daud to pass, and doesn’t say anything further.

Daud pauses at the front door, glancing back. Rulfio’s still watching him, his expression inscrutable.

“If I wanted to visit—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Rulfio snarls, furious all over again. “Of course you can, you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “But not soon, don’t get the kid’s hopes up.”

“Yeah.” This is as much for Sylvio’s own good as it is for Daud’s. It’d be better if the kid could just forget about him, if _everyone_ could forget about the Knife of Dunwall and everything he’d done, though he knows that’s impossible.

Daud opens the door, and walks away.

* * *

Rarely, Daud dreams of his last mission. Delilah. A witch who’d been willing to steal a young girl’s very identity to achieve her goals. He doesn’t regret what he did to her; he doubts he would have regretted putting her to the blade, either. He regrets that he’d killed people for coin, but some of them had _deserved_ it and he doesn’t regret that they are dead.

What Daud had given them wasn’t justice, though in some cases he knows justice would never have been served. Rich pedophiles and corrupt statesmen— people like them were virtually untouchable by conventional law.

Most of his victims hadn’t deserved it, though. His clients, mostly petty, jealous people, had thought their victims deserved it, but they didn’t. Daud knows that now, knew it then too, but it had been a job and he’d been paid and for decades he’d told himself that was all he had to be concerned with.

He’d lied to himself. He hadn’t known it was a lie, had always prided himself on his own lack of self-deception when so many of the people he dealt with indulged in such daily— but with the clarity of experience and the weight of his regrets, Daud knows. His actions had consequences beyond the deaths of his victims, and few of them were good. The only wrong he’s ever righted to any extent was stopping Delilah’s ritual to possess Emily Kaldwin.

Dreaming of Delilah’s studio in the Void, of the empty island and the now-ruined canvas, is peaceful in comparison to the nightmares of his other victims. Sometimes the witch is there, her pale face flushed with fury, her dark eyes glittering with hatred. She just glares at him, though. Silent and motionless, but not simply a facsimile conjured up by the Void. The emotion on her face is too vivid to be a product of the Void.

Daud almost wishes the black-eyed bastard would show up in those moments, but that’s impossible. The dreams of Delilah aren’t visions of the true Void, simply imperfect recreations of the witch and her studio brought up from the depths of Daud’s mind.

* * *

The journey to Saggunto doesn’t take nearly as long as the one to Bastillian. Daud doesn’t have the excuse of lingering pain or reading lessons to stop early or take the trip more slowly. What he does have is plenty of time to think on the empty stretches of road. Mostly, he thinks about how the trip to Bastillian had been more enjoyable, light-fingered kid in tow and all, and tries not to think on Sylvio or Rulfio or Rinaldo any further.

The port is smaller than Bastillian and Cullero; it isn’t on many official trading routes, especially since the construction of the Grand Serkonan Canal. The city’s primary industries are fishing and wine-making, supplemented by thriving criminal enterprises specializing mainly in smuggling. Daud avoids the latter, and secures temporary employment with a smaller vineyard. He does the work for a couple of seasons then quits, any vague notions of using his ill-gotten coin to buy a vineyard for himself thoroughly disabused.

He joins the crew of a fishing trawler next. It’s something to do, and not nearly so inhumane as whaling. It keeps his hands busy, but it’s no more stimulating than working the vineyard was. The constant close quarters are worse too; at least he could pretend he was alone amidst the rows of grapevines. The alternative is moving on, perhaps making his way to Karnaca, or joining one of the city’s numerous gangs, and he isn’t ready to move on yet nor is he willing to fall back on old habits.

Saggunto perches on the edge of the Empire, which is its only claim to fame. It’s too far out of the way to thrive as a tourist destination like Cullero or Bastillian, though some people do make the trip for the ornate wooden bridges built by one of the past Abeles. Daud doesn’t exactly see the appeal, but he’s not the type to visit a foreign city simply to see the sights. Saggunto also hasn’t been developed enough to make it an attractive place to work, like Karnaca, so Daud doesn’t expect to see any of his former subordinates passing through.

Denman is obviously just as surprised to find Daud in the shitty boardinghouse off the docks.

“Daud,” the master assassin says stiffly after several moments of staring.

Daud offers him a nod, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the other man for an instant. Denman had been one of his more vocal men, making no secret of his disapproval of the changes that followed the murder of the Empress. Belatedly, Daud notices the tattoos down one arm: a pattern of scaled sea serpents, the sign of one of the bigger smuggling gangs operating out of Saggunto and the small island just off its coast. That affiliation is hardly surprising, given Denman’s temperament.

“Thought you were dead.” The pronouncement lacks the accusing edge it had when Rulfio had said it. Somehow, Daud doubts Denman dwelt long on his supposed demise, aside from lamenting the loss of the powers granted to him by the arcane bond. It certainly hadn’t taken him long to turn on Daud’s successor. “Guess the Royal Protector was soft too.”

Daud stiffens. Corvo Attano had put Emily Kaldwin on the throne without taking a single life— that wasn’t _soft_. Daud couldn’t imagine holding the lives of the people who’d betrayed him or otherwise led to his downfall in his hands and allowing them to live.

He’d let Billie go, told her to leave Dunwall, and sealed Delilah into her own portrait, but it wasn’t remotely the same.

“What are you doing here?” Daud keeps his tone carefully neutral.

“Gotta make a living somehow.” Denman’s gaze flicks disdainfully over Daud, taking in, and summarily dismissing, his shabby fisherman’s attire.

Daud controls his hostile reaction this time, keeping his posture open. He doesn’t owe the man before him anything. “Sure.”

“You still have the mark?” Denman’s gaze rests on Daud’s gloved left hand, the avarice in his eyes an almost tangible weight.

“I’m not sharing the bond with anyone.” Especially not Denman.

“Yeah, guess not.” Denman’s disappointment only lasts for a moment before morphing into a sneer. “You even cut Lurk’s shitty replacement off, and that bleeding heart was everything you wanted us to become.”

Daud doesn’t bother gracing the obvious bait with an answer. If he had harboured any doubt about Denman’s loyalty, they would’ve been assuaged now.

“Thomas tried to keep it together after you left but—” Denman shrugs, smiling unpleasantly.

The implications lurking behind the seemingly careless words might have unnerved Daud under other circumstances, if he hadn’t heard what had happened from Rinaldo. As it is, Daud allows himself to linger on the missing front tooth that he doesn’t remember, and the new scars. From Thomas, presumably.

“You seem to be doing well enough for yourself,” Daud says, a blatant lie. In addition to the injuries, Denman’s clothing is nearly as rough as Daud’s. The Duke is determined to root out the pirates and smugglers that still plague Serkonos, and it’s only a matter of time before he turns his attention to Saggunto, as remote as the city is; the smugglers must be feeling the pressure already.

A muscle in Denman’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing, but that cold smile is back a moment later. “I could say the same, old man. But going out every day like some common fisherman is a waste of your time. What do you say to one more job? For old time’s sake.”

“I’d rather turn myself in to the Overseers.” Daud turns away and goes into his rented room, watching with his void gaze until Denman leaves.

He packs what little he has; most of it is still tucked into his bag, as if he knew he’d be leaving at a moment’s notice. Saggunto was never more than a way point, though Daud can’t say what or where his final destination is. He just knows it’s not here.

He ducks out through the window, slipping away across the rooftops. He hasn’t used a transversal in months, but it’s still as familiar as breathing. As he crosses a nearby alley, he sees Denman leading a group of other gang members towards the boardinghouse.

As if Daud couldn’t take half a dozen men. He scowls at the very thought and heads for the edge of town. He slips into the back of a wagon headed inland, hoping his map of Serkonos is as accurate for the interior as it was for the coastal roads. If not— he’ll figure something out. He always does, one way or another.


	3. sinking in my sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the cliffhanger ;) <3

Daud doesn’t go back to Bastillian. He sends letters to Rulfio and Rinaldo - brief missives like _passed through a village that wasn’t on my map_ or _found the winery that makes that swill you like, Rinaldo_ \- with postscripts to Sylvio to let them know he isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere— but he doesn’t go back. If he goes back, he knows he won’t want to leave again.

His map, as it turns out, isn’t terribly accurate. There are a lot of hamlets too small to merit a mention on the thing, but a lot of the settlements that are marked down are in the wrong places, connected by roads that don’t exist or are mislabeled. Most of the locals are friendly enough, and more than willing to point him in the right direction to the nearest highway or the next village, thankfully.

The aimless wandering through the Serkonan countryside reminds him of the years after the black-eyed bastard first marked him. He’d traveled the Isles seeking out shrines to the creature, almost setting out to get lost and stumble upon the forgotten places of the world. Daud had been more reckless then, thinking the mark justified his choices and made him invulnerable. Any highwaymen foolish enough to attack him met their ends on the edge of his blade.

Now, he stays off the roads at night, stopping in town if he can or finding a secluded spot to bed down. He passes a few would-be robbers but the mark enables him to escape unscathed. He picks up odd jobs when the mood strikes him, but he always moves on within a couple of months. The small towns and villages don’t remind him of Dunwall, but lingering within their walls - assuming the latest village is even larger enough to warrant them - makes him restless.

He doesn’t cross paths with any more of his men, which is a blessing. He’d like to see most of them again, aside from those who harboured similar sentiments to Denman, but they’d present Daud with the same dilemma Rulfio and Rinaldo had. He could probably resist sticking around with them, without the added complication of Sylvio, but it’s better not to risk it.

They’re all better off without him in any case.

* * *

On one of his unintentional forays off the map, Daud stumbles upon a derelict vineyard. The vines hang off their supports, overgrown and disorderly, interspersed with weeds; the grapes are sour when Daud pulls a bunch off the vine. He tosses the rest aside with a grimace and continues down the road; it’s already early evening and he’s hoping to come across the next town, or at least some sign of another person who can point him in the right direction.

A ramshackle house rises up from the mass of untended plants within the hour. The roof is partially rotted away, the weathered rafters speaking of considerable time spent exposed to the elements. It’s obviously abandoned, the front door swaying gently in the breeze as Daud walks up to the house.

He’d harboured vague notions of buying a place like this and making wine with those Whalers willing to follow him, if he managed to escape Dunwall with his life. Not that he’d expected to. And when Corvo had chosen to spare him, Daud had been too overwhelmed to do anything but catch the first ship out of the city, leaving his men behind.

A thick layer of dust coats the floor, billowing up around his feet as Daud steps inside. He sneezes three times in quick succession, the sound echoing around the house. Definitely uninhabited. He ventures further in, checking every room; they’re all empty, aside from a broken chair lying abandoned in one corner.

The last room contains a shrine. Daud stares at it for several seconds, torn between annoyance and disbelief. The candles have long since burnt themselves out, now little more than puddles of wax on the floor, and the swoops of cloth have clearly seen better days. The only thing in the entire house that doesn’t look like it’s seen better days is the rune hissing away on the surface of the altar.

If this isn’t a sign that Daud’s vineyard of regret wasn’t meant to be, he doesn’t know what is. He stalks forward and snatches up the rune; it would just keep hissing away, audible even from the other end of the house, if he left it alone.

After a couple of seconds, it becomes apparent that the black-eyed bastard has no intention of appearing before him. Daud’s glad; he wants to see the creature even less than he wants to run into any of his men.

Daud chucks the rune aside, uncaring of where it falls, and goes back to the main room to set out his bedroll and see about eating dinner.

* * *

He dreams of the Void that night. It’s empty, or it seems so. Daud knows the black-eyed bastard can’t leave the place, but the creature’s pale face doesn’t appear before him.

Daud can still feel the weight of that dark gaze on him, watching as he transverses from one floating island to the next, but otherwise he is alone. Aside from his starting point on the pavilion of Dunwall Tower, complete with the usual taunting note and murdered Empress, the other scenes are positively tame.

Delilah’s studio awaits him at the end of the trail, minus the statues of the witch. The canvas he had used to trap her is bare. Daud studies it, taking in the smears of paint staining the grass below. It had already begun to run as Delilah completed her ritual, but he’d only stuck around long enough to ensure that Delilah was sealed within the painting before returning to Brigmore Manor.

He flexes his left hand, relaxing it out of the fist he’d unconsciously clenched it into. The witch is dead, or as good as. She won’t be troubling him or his men or Emily Kaldwin again; if only the black-eyed bastard and Daud’s own subconscious would do him the courtesy of letting her memory die as well.

* * *

Daud crosses the Grand Serkonan Canal a few times in his wanderings as he heads east then west and then back east again. He avoids the larger settlements, but eventually it feels as if he’s been through every tiny hamlet Serkonos has to offer. At a certain point, they all blend together; if he hasn’t actually visited the town before, it feels like he has because the place seems similar in some aspect to every other village he’s passed through already.

He stops at a larger town on the shore of the canal. It’s easy and not too expensive to purchase passage to Karnaca on one of the riverboats that travel the length of the artificial river, ferrying goods and people to and from the capital. His birthplace was one of the only major cities he’d avoided in those years exploring the Empire. He hasn’t returned since he was sixteen years old and eager to leave the so-called Jewel of the South, finally free of the men who’d kidnapped him.

A few ragged banners bearing Jessamine Kaldwin’s face flutter in the breeze on the street corners. As Daud waits for the ferry, he gleans from nearby conversations that it was recently the fourth anniversary of the Empress’ murder. He can hardly believe that he’s been wandering the Serkonan countryside for two years. It explains why he feels as if he’s seen every small town on the Isle.

Daud has plenty of time to dwell on it on the trip down the canal. He’d kept track of the days leading up to the third anniversary of his last murder, helpfully aided by the nightmares of Jessamine Kaldwin’s last breaths and the destruction of her family. In the past few months, he’d lost track of the exact date. He’d been aware, vaguely, of the days of the week, but beyond that—

The fact that he’d allowed that day to pass unremarked unsettles him. Daud still regrets that last job keenly; his guilt keeps him moving, unable to settle down and try to live some semblance of a normal life. Rulfio was right, he _doesn’t_ deserve it. But he didn’t deserve to live either, and Corvo had still spared him. So perhaps it is time for him to _try_.

* * *

Returning to Serkonos had soothed a soul-deep ache that Daud hadn’t even been aware existed before he stepped back onto his homeland’s shore.

Coming back to Karnaca makes that feeling of homecoming resurge tenfold. He’s been gone three decades and the skyline of Karnaca isn’t quite the same when they emerge from the mountains but a measure of peace settles over him as the ferry heads for the docks at Campo Seta. It doesn’t ease the steady throb of guilt - even the passage of four years has done little more than dull its edge - but it is a part of Daud now, like the mark on his hand and the scar on his face. His guilt and regret have made him into the person he is today.

He has only a vague idea of where he’ll be spending the night, much less what he’ll _do_ with himself (except for _that_ ; he will never take a life again) but he feels, in some strange way, as if he’s arrived where he’s always meant to be.

This strange-familiar city that he half-remembers is more his home than miserable Dunwall ever was.

* * *

Batista District is mostly as Daud remembers it: covered in a perpetual layer of dust from the mine, but no less lively for it. A few buildings that Daud recalls having been abandoned before he left have been reclaimed, hosting new businesses or apartments for miners and their families. Likewise, some fixtures of the district that Daud remembers are gone, leaving behind empty stores or new enterprises in their places. The biggest change is the manor on the edge of the district.

Aramis Stilton’s home is nearly as ostentatious as the worst noble manors back in Dunwall’s Estate District. Daud stares at it for several long moments; it’s so out of place in one of Karnaca’s poorest districts that he can’t help but gawk at it through the barred gates. He’d heard Stilton’s name on the tongues of the miners before he left, but the man’s obviously made something of himself. From what Daud’s heard since returning to Serkonos, the mine baron is a good man who actually cares about his miners and tries to improve their working conditions.

Daud’s drawn from his contemplation of the strange addition of the district and Karnaca’s skyline by a child stumbling into him.

“Sorry, sir—” The child yelps when Daud grabs her by the shoulder before she can disappear into the crowd.

“My coin pouch,” Daud says sternly, holding out his other hand.

The girl flashes him an unrepentant grin and slips it back to him. After weighing it for a second, he releases her and tucks it into his front pocket instead. She’s gone by the time he looks up again, which is just as well; he doesn’t want to make the mistake of getting attached to another unfortunate street child.

The saloon on the edge of Batista, off Miramar Street, is still there. It’s changed proprietors over the years, and been renamed the Crone’s Hand in the meantime. The Overseer outpost that was stationed a block or so further down has been relocated to the other side of the district. Daud can’t tell if it’s because they’ve given up on persuading the working class of the ills of drinking or if the gang that’s taken over management of the saloon has driven them off; either way, he’s glad to avoid passing by too many Overseers.

Daud finds the building where he and his mother used to live after an hour or two of wandering, losing his way or getting distracted again by the changes Batista has undergone several times. The apartment was condemned and infested with bloodflies when he left, but like so many others it’s been reclaimed in the intervening thirty years. There’s even a vacancy, according to the sign beside the front door. He considers it for a second, but ultimately decides to move on. There are too many memories waiting for him in the dark corners of this district, and the combined presence of a large Overseer outpost and the gang based out of the Crone’s Hand make the location even less desirable.

He makes his way back to Campo Seta, where he’s rented out a room for the week at a modest hotel. He still has a small fortune in coin, but if he intends to stay in Karnaca - which, barring something truly catastrophic, he does - then he needs to find more permanent lodgings and probably some sort of employment so he doesn’t drive himself insane.

* * *

Karnaca isn’t nearly so sprawling as Dunwall was, but Daud never knew its streets half as well as he knew those of the Empire’s capital. Its streets and waterways and rooftops are a mystery to him, and he spends the next few days exploring them.

He visits the Royal Conservatory on a whim and then stays until it closes, engrossed by the exhibits within. The Academy had specimens similar to those at the Conservatory, but they weren’t displayed for the public like these exhibits are, with helpful descriptions for viewers interested in learning more. He sneaks back in after everyone but the guards tasked with guarding the exhibits have left. The place was crowded during the day, the voices of visitors echoing loudly in the open hall, and Daud takes his time at every exhibit that catches his eyes, moving on only when the guards pass by on patrol.

Cyria Gardens is a tempting district to stay in, but its inhabitants are too upscale for Daud’s tastes. They look down their noses at the crowds that throng to the conservatory; in the simple clothing that Daud has adopted since coming to Serkonos, he blends in seamlessly with the masses. He doesn’t consider himself better than them, though— if anything, he’s worse. He doubts any of them have as much blood to their names as he has on one hand.

If Cyria Gardens is too highbrow, the Aventa Quarter is even worse. Daud doesn’t even bother venturing to the upper section of the district. The Palace District isn’t even in question. Clemente Landing skews too far to the other end of the scale, reminding Daud simultaneously of Batista and the worst slums of Dunwall. The Santiago District is closer to what he wants, but it stinks too much of fish, worse than the dockyards.

As he heads back to the hotel in Campo Seta, he reflects wryly on how picky he’s becoming in his old age, spoiled by the months spent with Rulfio and Rinaldo, and the inns on the road. Back in Dunwall, he hadn’t even needed an intact roof or floor, content to inhabit the capital’s most inhospitable corners if it meant keeping himself concealed from the authorities.

Passing by the bar where he sometimes takes his meals when he wants a change from the fare served at the hotel, he notices a new addition beside its entrance. VACANCY, the folding board sign proclaims, INQUIRE WITHIN.

It’s nearly dinnertime, in any case. Daud ducks inside to speak with the landlord.

* * *

The vacancy in question is the apartment just above the bar. It’s a modest residence, roughly the same size altogether as his quarters back in the old Chamber of Commerce. But it has a roof and reliable plumbing, which is a step up from the Rudshore base, and Daud doesn’t need much space. The small bedroom fits a simple cot, and the living room has enough room for a couch and a bookcase. He fills the latter slowly; for a while, _Ports of Call_ is the only title to grace its shelves.

The downside is the _noise_. The bar below gets rowdy at night, especially towards the end of the week. If it’s not the general din of drinking patrons, it’s the strains of song from the musical duo that plays a couple of times a week. The rest of his neighbours are quiet, thankfully, but Daud would have appreciated a bit of warning; it explained the cheap rent, at least.

But he becomes accustomed to it swiftly enough, so that it fades to white noise that he hardly notices. In terms of inconveniences, the sometimes-excessive noise doesn’t rate particularly high on Daud’s list.

Some nights it’s harder to ignore than others. Tonight is one of those times; the shouting has been going on continually for several minutes, and likely longer before it penetrated Daud’s consciousness and distracted him from the book he’s reading— an old edition of a medical text, missing its back cover and several pages, that had caught his eye in a pawn shop window.

He’s still wandering Karnaca’s streets, looking for some kind of employment now that his housing situation is solved, which is how he stumbled upon the pawn shop in the first place. The noticeboards all seem to have postings for the low ranks of the Grand Guard, or factory work. The former seems like it would be asking for trouble, given that he still sees a few faded wanted posters bearing his face every so often, and the latter is utterly unappealing.

The shouting continues downstairs, punctuated by broken glass and screaming.

Daud frowns and puts his book aside with a sigh.

When he reaches the main floor, the fight has spilled out into the hallway outside the bar, a drunken woman clutching the broken stem of a bottle as a makeshift weapon to threaten an unarmed man. The side of his face is bloody, but he’s lucid enough to attempt reasoning with her. The bartender - Daud’s landlord - hovers in the doorway, wringing a dirty rag anxiously between his hands; a few other patrons peek over his shoulder, watching with interest that varies from worried to downright gleeful at the prospect of violence.

“Put the bottle down, Elly,” the man’s says, his hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. “Let’s talk about this.” His eyes dart to Daud as he steps closer to the woman, who has her back to him.

Elly swears, possibly at the man or perhaps just at the bystanders in general, and spins around, slashing at Daud with the bottle.

He steps aside easily, catching her wrist in a tight grasp and twisting it behind her back. She yelps in pain, losing her grip on the makeshift weapon. She’s drunk enough that even the pain of having her arm held at such an unnatural angle isn’t enough to stop her from lashing out with her free hand, clawing awkwardly at Daud’s face.

“That’s enough,” Daud growls, catching her free hand with his own. She struggles, but he’s too strong for her to escape. Using the leverage of her trapped arms, he marches her forward; the man she was threatening steps aside, and the bar’s other patrons shrink back as they walk past the entrance, Elly cursing Daud and his ancestry the whole way.

She shrieks, stumbling down the steps to the street proper when he pushes her out the front door, but doesn’t lose her balance. Surprising, considering how strongly she smelled of wine.

“Walk it off,” Daud advises her, blocking her from re-entering with the bulk of his body. He crosses his arms over his chest and fixes her with the stare that had cowed his men back in Dunwall.

Elly just sneers at him, but she doesn’t try to shove past him, and after a moment she turns and starts down the street. Her gait is slightly unsteady, and she doesn’t walk in a straight line, but at least she’s leaving.

The man involved in the altercation has disappeared when Daud goes back down the hall, and conversation has resumed in the bar, albeit in a more subdued fashion than usual. The serving girl is mopping up near the counter, pieces of shattered glass grinding against the wooden floor. The bar always seems to smell of alcohol, but the stench of fig wine is particularly potent now.

“On the house,” the bartender, Alfonso, says as he passes Daud a tumbler of whiskey.

Old Dunwall, by the smell of it. Daud takes a sip, letting the familiar taste linger on his tongue. It was cheaper back in Dunwall; it didn’t taste the best, but it wasn’t complete shit either, a combination that made the whiskey a staple for Daud and his men back then.

The thought of Dunwall makes the taste sour in his mouth and Daud tosses back the rest in a single gulp, too fast to taste. It burns down his throat.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Think that’s my line,” Alfonso drawls. A customer further down the bar calls for a refill. “Wait here, if you have a minute— there’s something I want to ask you.” At Daud’s nod, he goes to deal with the customer.

Daud turns the tumbler in his hands, observing the way the lights overhead reflect off the glass. Its surface is scratched and dull in places from prolonged use. An apt description of Daud himself. He scowls at the distorted reflection of his face in the glass.

Alfonso returns a few moments later and leans against the counter opposite him. “Been looking for someone to keep an eye on things ever since the last guy quit to join the Grand Guard,” he says in an undertone. “You move like you know how to handle yourself in a brawl.”

Daud inclines his head. “I’ve been in one or two,” he hedges. He used to get in plenty of brawls back in his youth, though after he’d carved a reputation for himself as the Knife of Dunwall, those instances had declined dramatically. A good assassin is never seen, and Daud was the best, after all. But the instincts are still there; Daud still tenses when someone moves too quickly too close to him, expecting a weapon or a fist to come his way.

The other man’s eyes dart to the right side of Daud’s face, and the scar raking down over his eye. “Right.” He’s obviously skeptical, but doesn’t press the matter further. “Well, you interested? It’d just be on the busier nights, at the end of the week.”

“I’ll give it a try,” Daud says, after a few moment’s thought. It’s something to do, anyway.

“Great!” Alfonso flashes him a brief smile. “We can work out the details tomorrow, if you’re available.”

“Tomorrow works,” he agrees. His plans for tomorrow, and basically every day afterward consisted of him wandering the city looking for some kind of employment that was palatable, because he’d developed standards for how he wanted to spend his days in the same way that he’d developed standards for where he wanted to live.

Alfonso nods, then he’s called away again. Daud takes that as his cue to leave, placing the tumbler gently down on the counter before heading back up to his apartment.

* * *

Daud takes to going to bed late and waking around noon, even on the nights when he doesn’t work at the bar. He covers the lower half of his face with a folded square of cloth, claiming he can’t stand the dust. It’s worse in Batista, but the rest of Karnaca does get it on particularly windy days. His voice, low and graveled, is enough to convince the askers of the truth in his words.

Most people in Karnaca don’t spare him a second glance, beyond the usual alarm if they happen to lay eyes on his scar as he walks past, but some gang members stop by the bar occasionally and Daud doesn’t want them recognizing his face.

Working at the bar is— comfortable. Daud doesn’t often have to intervene to stop bar fights from happening too often, and his wage is enough to cover his rent. He runs errands for Alfonso too, picking up deliveries or help with stock when he has the time, which earns him enough most weeks to pay for his meals at the bar or his groceries if he’s feeling ambitious.

And then someone does recognize him.


	4. breathing heavily at my feet

“ _Boss_?” a voice says from behind him, familiar for all that he hasn’t heard it in— seven years? Eight?

“Hobson,” Daud says stiffly, turning to face his former subordinate.

“Shit, it really is you.” The makeshift physician stares at him for several seconds, the pint of ale in his hand forgotten.

“Oh, are you a friend of Daud’s?” Alfonso asks, leaning on the counter. It’s still early in the evening, so the place isn’t too crowded and the musicians in the corner haven’t started playing yet. “You should’ve said. Next round’s on the house for you.”

Hobson’s eyebrows rise, his disbelief obvious.

“What brings you to Karnaca?” Daud asks, acutely aware of Alfonso’s curious scrutiny. He might as well get the pleasantries over with. At least Hobson probably won’t do more than judge Daud for his life choices before moving on.

“Vacation.” Hobson takes the stool next to Daud, still staring at him like he can’t quite believe his eyes. “Found work up in Tyvia after— Well, you know.” He shrugs, clearly not overly bothered by how things had ended back in Dunwall. But Hobson had skills that made him unique among the Whalers: though he had dropped out of the Academy, he still knew more about treating wounds and illnesses than most of the rest combined and had saved life and limb for a majority of them as well. He could easily have earned a degree in Tyvia, or simply started a practice that catered to those uninterested in the completion of their physician’s education.

“I’m glad,” Daud says, and he’s a little surprised to find that he is. Hobson seems to share the sentiment, if his raised eyebrows are any indication.

“It’s a living,” Hobson says, nonchalant. He takes a swig from his ale, leaning on the counter as he looks over the barroom. There isn’t anything particularly judgmental about his expression, and he doesn’t comment, but Daud feels his shoulders rising defensively all the same.

He forces himself to relax, wishing he had a drink if only to have something to do with his hands.

They make smalltalk for a while, Hobson complaining about Tyvia’s cold and sea travel, Daud commiserating. He draws the line when Hobson, a native of Dunwall, starts whining about Karnaca’s heat. It’s the height of summer, and while Daud sometimes finds the hottest days oppressive, he isn’t about to admit as much to Hobson.

“Should’ve stayed in Tyvia and enjoyed the two warm days a year if all you’re going to do is bitch about Karnaca’s summer,” Daud says. His cheeks ache, and he realizes with a dull shock that he’s grinning behind the makeshift bandanna.

Hobson, on his third ale and never the most respectful at the best of time, tells him to fuck himself. “Figured I’d at least manage to avoid meeting up with the old gang at the edge of the damn world,” he complains. “Most of us fled to Tyvia and Morley, far as I know.”

“Doing well?” The question slips out before Daud can catch it. He glares at the empty glass at his elbow, betrayed.

Hobson’s gaze is entirely too shrewd, given how unwitting he’d been acting two seconds earlier, but Alfonso cuts in then, wiping up a bit of ale that Hobson had spilled while gesturing with his mug.

“Another, friend?”

Daud shakes his head. One was already more than enough, apparently.

“Looks like it’ll be a quiet night. You can leave and catch up with your friend if you want,” Alfonso says.

The bar isn’t too crowded, but it’s hardly empty either. Besides, some of the Howlers have taken over the tables nearest the musicians. Though they haven’t caused any trouble yet, it doesn’t take much with them.

“If there’s any problem, I’m sure you’ll hear it,” Alfonso adds.

Hobson drains his mug and thumps it down on the counter. “That sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it, Daud?”

Daud wants to protest, but it _does_ sound like a good idea. Despite the fact that the address Daud sends his letters to Rulfio, Rinaldo and Sylvio from has remained the same for over two years now, they have yet to send anything back. He’s not upset, precisely, and he should be pleased that they aren’t preoccupied with him, but it would be nice to know what they’re up to. Maybe Hobson knows; if not, he’ll at least be able to tell Daud about some of his other men.

“It does. Thanks, Alfonso.” Daud stands and leads Hobson up to his apartment.

His men had come and gone from his quarters back in Rudshore, but it wasn’t like the gaping hole where the roof should’ve been afforded even the illusion of privacy. And he’d shared rooms at the inns and hotels, and then in Rulfio and Rinaldo’s apartment, with Sylvio. No one’s been in his apartment since Alfonso showed it to him, however.

“Nice place,” Hobson says, but he sounds sincere, and he looks it too when Daud glances at him.

Daud shrugs and goes to get himself a glass of water from the kitchen, trying not to dwell on how much it’s bothering him to have another person in his space. “You want anything?” he calls, after he drains the glass and pours himself another.

“I’m good.” Hobson’s found the living room - it’s at the other end of the hall, it’s not hard to locate. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he owns the damn thing - joke’s on him, it’s an uncomfortable piece of crap no matter what position the sitter tries - so Daud takes the armchair in the corner opposite.

“You have a room in the city?” Daud asks.

Hobson nods. “Place in Cyria Gardens. Some kind of flower name. Has to fit the theme or motif or whatever, I guess.”

“Good, because I only have the one bed and I don’t share.”

Hobson laughs. It might be the first time Daud’s ever heard it. “What, you’re not going to offer me this terrible couch for the night?”

“You’d be better off sleeping on the floor. If you’re that desperate, you may as well—”

Hobson shakes his head, still chuckling. It fades after a few moments, Hobson’s expression sobering. “But about your question downstairs. There was some trouble after you left—”

“—Denman. I know.” Daud scowls and takes a careful sip of water, then realizes that Hobson already knows his face (and recognized him from behind, without even seeing it fully) and pulls off the bandanna entirely, draping it over the arm of the chair.

“Yeah. That fucking bastard.” Hobson scowls too, looking angrier than Daud’s ever since him. “Wait, who told you about that? I keep in touch with Thomas, and he keeps in touch with basically everyone else, and he would’ve mentioned if someone knew you were alive.”

Daud takes another sip of water, and then keeps drinking as Hobson stares at him, draining the glass entirely as he tries to think. He takes his time setting it down. “I ran into Denman a few years ago,” he says. It isn’t even a lie.

“All right, but there’s no way _he_ told you about what happened.”

“Rulfio and Rinaldo are living in Bastillian, I stayed with them for a few months,” Daud admits.

“I fucking knew it,” Hobson says. “Yeah, Rulfio likes kid but there was no way he’d just pick one up off the street like that.” He shakes his head. “Outsider’s eyes, Sullivan had one of your old wanted posters pinned up in his room.”

“It’s Sylvio.” Daud bites back the rest of what he wants to say - the correction is damning enough without him grilling Hobson about Sylvio’s temperament and wellbeing.

Hobson just gives him a knowing look that Daud doesn’t appreciate in the slightest. “Anyway, as far as I know everyone’s doing all right. Thomas has some kind of spy shit going on in Tyvia, think he’s working for their Spymaster. Or maybe he is their Spymaster? Whatever. Send him a letter if you want to know more, I’m sure he’d get back to you right away.”

There’s no way Daud will do that. He can trust Thomas’ discretion but he doesn’t _deserve_ it, and Thomas has his own life now—

“If he doesn’t die of shock from finding out you’re alive after all these years,” Hobson adds.

Daud winces. “You’re taking it well.”

Hobson shrugs. “Didn’t think you were dead in the first place. Why would Attano have dirtied his hands after everything else he did? He didn’t kill any of us on his way through either, so I didn’t think he’d have killed you. But the bond getting severed was a pretty clear message that you didn’t want to be followed.” Hobson shifts around, grimacing as he tries to find a comfortable position. “You could’ve left a note, though,” he adds, after he either finds one or gives up.

Daud would bet on the latter.

“That’s fair,” Daud mutters, looking away.

Hobson takes pity on him then, changing the subject to Karnaca. Apart from the terrible weather, he doesn’t mind it, apparently. “It’s more advanced in some ways than Dabokva,” he says. “The Duke seems to care about the city, and the mines aren’t being run by slave drivers.”

Daud nods. “It could be a lot worse.” Those six months of Burrows’ rule come to mind most prominently.

“Mm. And there’s a medical research facility being opened,” Hobson adds. “At Addermire, I think it’s called? The sanitarium.”

“I heard about that.” Everyone’s been talking about it, excited that the alchemist expected to head the place plans to work on developing a serum to counteract bloodfly fever. “Thinking of applying? You could enjoy the climate year round.”

“Void, no.” Hobson looks disgusted at the suggestion. “I like my job in Dabokva. It doesn’t involve working with _infectious diseases_. Apparently those are Alexandria Hypatia’s specialty.” He grins suddenly, sly. “But if you’re looking for a change of pace, maybe _you_ should apply.”

“I have even less formal training than you,” Daud retorts, unimpressed.

“Just a suggestion,” Hobson says guilelessly. Innocence, or feigned innocence in this case, sits terribly on his face; regardless, his words hit closer to home than Daud would have liked. Perhaps sensing this, Hobson stretches, his back popping audibly; the couch really is terrible. “Shit. It’s getting late and I don’t want to spend the night on your awful couch.”

“If you’re sure.” But Daud rises when he does.

“The furniture in the Flooded District was better and three-quarters of it was falling apart.” Hobson rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Anyway, I have to get up early tomorrow. Ship’s leaving and I don’t want to stay here and get stung to death by bloodflies.”

“What time?”

Hobson blinks at him; he’s been looking at Daud with that same surprised expression far too often this entire night. “Uh, seven? Aww, boss, are you going to come see me off—”

“Get out,” Daud says, annoyed. Hobson laughs, and goes, pausing at the door to bid him a good night which Daud returns grudgingly. As he walks back through the apartment, putting out the lights as he heads for his bedroom, Daud’s mind keeps returning to what Hobson said about a change of pace.

* * *

Hobson’s as good as his word. He’s gone the next day, boarding a ship back to Tyvia after a brief farewell. Daud appreciates the lack of sentiment, though he does feel a bit of a pang when he returns to his now-empty apartment. It had been— pleasant, to be around one of his men again. To ward off experiencing further emotions on the subject - if he dwells long enough, he’ll think about returning to Bastillian, though Sylvio must be nearly grown by now - he jots off a quick letter about the visit to Rulfio.

The conversation with Hobson does make Daud think about what he’s been doing in the years since coming to Serkonos. Keeping to himself, getting by, keeping his hands clean. It’s a life, but there’s more that he could be doing. Perhaps not at so prestigious an establishment as the Addermire Institute of Infectious Diseases, but there are other places throughout Karnaca that help those in need. Soup kitchens in Batista and Clemente Landing, medical offices around the city, _bloodfly_ extermination, though that’s a bit riskier than Daud would like. Still, it’s a useful occupation.

It’s the worst kind of hubris, to think that someone like him can _help_ people, but he wants to try all the same.

* * *

Daud bites back a groan when he opens his eyes and realizes he is in the Void. It takes him a moment, though— it seems darker at the edges, all sharper angles but that faint, distant dirge is familiar. Of course, as soon as he makes the decision to do something worthwhile, the black-eyed bastard has to show up for the first time in years and taunt him about it.

“To think that your choices could still interest me, after all this time,” the creature says, not bothering to beat around the bush or string Daud along. “It’s been years. You’re really getting old now, my friend.”

“I like what you’ve done to the place,” Daud says, rather than rise to the obvious bait, and crosses his arms over his chest.

A furrow appears between dark brows, the only lines marring that smooth, youthful face. Daud has never seen the creature confused before; a variety of expressions ranging from amused (seldom) to disappointed (frequent), yes— but never _confused_. “The Void is unchanging.”

“Sure.” His tone makes it clear he disagrees, but Daud casts a look around to drive the point home, lingering as pointedly as he can on the unusually empty space around them. The floating bit of rock is devoid of any notable features - usually there’s _something_ to make Daud feel insignificant and pathetic. The blade he’d left at the Empress’ headstone, or the pavilion itself, perhaps with the damning bloodstain her body left behind. Even a discarded vapour mask is enough to remind Daud of everything. The gnarled root poking up in one corner, bleached smooth with age, means nothing to him.

“This is—” The creature disappears, dissolving into the Void’s trademark darkness.

Daud frowns, looking around for some sign of the pale-skinned figure, but the Void might as well be empty. He paces to the edge of the island, then makes his way along the only obvious path of unremarkable rocks. He travels for a while, but when he reaches the final island, nothing awaits him. As he waits, pacing with growing impatience, he becomes aware that he is being watched.

The figure stands motionless on a piece of dark stone, beyond the reach of Daud’s transversal. He can just make out dark eyes set in a pale face, staring at him with an intensity he chooses not to find unnerving. Silent.

Waiting.

Daud turns away. He prefers the silent treatment to the creature’s taunts, and he will wake soon enough.

* * *

His season at the Academy of Natural Philosophy was good for more than a Sokolov portrait that always seems to turn up where and when he least wants it, despite what he’d told Hobson about the state of his education. Daud still remembers everything he learned there, not to mention the other bits of knowledge - anatomy, history, politics, economics - that he’s picked up here and there, from firsthand experience or books pilfered on missions.

“I don’t have any sort of degree, or official documentation,” he warns his prospective employer.

That earns him a distracted smile, and a dismissively-waved hand. “No matter. So long as you have some experience, and can follow instructions, I’m sure your help will be invaluable.”

Daud blinks; things don’t usually go this smoothly without some kind of intervention, be it arcane or his own methods of intimidation.

“Can you start tomorrow?” she asks, but continues before he could reply, “Oh, is that too soon? Next week, then. The sooner the better, really.”

“Tomorrow,” Daud agrees. There isn’t anything else he needs to do; he’s already let Alfonso know that he’s looking for new employment. “I’ll take the morning ferry.”

His employer smiles at him. Daud returns it reflexively, though it has been so long since an essential stranger smiled at him and he felt the need to respond that the smile feels more like a grimace on his face. Unperturbed, his employer says, “Wonderful, thank you. My assistant will get you settled. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Daud settles into the routine of daily work shifts with surprising ease, considering the erratic schedule that came with his previous vocation and the relative lack of one that had characterized his life since returning to Serkonos. He trades out the bandanna for a surgical mask— it’s a bit more respectable, although it’s also a more uncommon face covering to wear every day. But no one looks askance at the surgical mask that hides the lower half of his face or the dark gloves he wears - they only extend to his wrists, a concession to the climate and his changed life. The scar bisecting the right side of his face is still partially visible, but none of the people he deals with seem to recognize him, as evidenced by the lack of guardsmen beating down his door.

Then again, the clients tend to have other things on their minds, and it _has_ been eight years. Perhaps that’s long enough for the infamous Knife of Dunwall to fade from memory. He hopes that’s the case.

Daud is careful not to make the same mistakes he’d made back in Dunwall. He keeps his distance from his employer and coworkers, maintaining a careful work relationship that doesn’t extend into their personal lives. The less they know about him, the slimmer the chance of them realizing who he once was. So long as Daud does his job with competence - and he always does - no one mentions the bags under his eyes or his sometimes harsh words. As more and more people flock to their doors as news of their work spreads, Daud finds himself staying later as his duties are expanded and the workload increases. He often staggers onto the last ferry of the night, exhausted, dozing off only to wake when it reaches the dock.

It’s much more fulfilling work than anything he’d done in Dunwall, barring that last mission to foil the witch’s plot. Tired as he is, Daud hardly dreams about past victims or the witch herself or even of the Void and its silent watcher. Dreamless, restful sleep is an unintended but entirely welcome side effect of Daud’s new employment.

* * *

“You seem happier lately,” Alfonso remarks one night, as Daud’s dozing off over his bowl of stew at the bar.

Daud straightens up, blinking. “What?”

“You. Seem. Happier,” Alfonso repeats, enunciating each word with exaggerated care. “Ever since you started at that new place.”

Daud grimaces at him, not appreciating the sass. “It’s not escorting disorderly drunks out, but it’s a job.”

Alfonso rolls his eyes, but a customer draws him away before he can properly reply to that.

Daud finishes what’s left of his meal, but not fast enough to escape Alfonso, who walks back over just as Daud’s chewing the last mouthful.

“I’m serious, friend,” Alfonso says, leaning one arm against the counter. “I mean, you’re still nothing much to look at—”

“—fuck off—” Daud retorts, but without any real heat.

“—but you’ve got that glow, you know, the one that people who love their jobs get.”

“I think you’re mistaking the eye bags for something else,” Daud says, wiping his mouth before putting the surgical mask back on. “Can’t you do something about all the noise? I have to get up early these days.”

“Actually, old Lidia’s moving in with her son. Her apartment’s about the same size as yours.”

The name brings to mind an elderly woman that Daud’s helped up and down the stairs on numerous occasions. She lives on the floor above him, at the other end of the building.

“About time,” Daud says. She’s talked his ear off about her son and his family often enough that he knows all about them and her wish to join them in the Aventa Quarter. Then he adds, more suspicious, “What’s the rent?”

Alfonso grins. “The same, the same. Someone like you, who’s helping ‘improve the lives of the common folk’, deserves a lower rent—”

“I was sleep-deprived because of your rowdy customers when I said that,” Daud complains.

Alfonso laughs outright at that. “All the more reason to take my offer and move into Lidia’s old apartment, no?”

“ _After_ you get it cleaned,” Daud says. Lidia’s also told him, extensively, about her three cats. Even if she hadn’t, the amount of hair that manages to transfer to his clothes after helping her with a flight or two of stairs is ridiculous and impossible to ignore.

“You drive a hard bargain, friend.”

* * *

The tenth anniversary of the Empress’ murder comes and goes with little fanfare. Duke Abele sends some kind of tribute to Dunwall, but the lives of the people of Serkonos were not materially affected by her death nor the transition to Emily Kaldwin’s reign; most care little for a distant monarch who had fallen to her traitorous spymaster a decade past, or the daughter that still mourns her.

Daud sleeps uneasily, his dreams consumed with reliving that day at Dunwall Tower. He can still hear the Empress’ pained gasp and her daughter’s screams and her Royal Protector’s shouts as if he’d first heard them the day before, not nearly a decade ago. If it’s not the memories of the day he killed the Empress, he wanders the Void instead.

The black-eyed bastard is always there, distant but present, pale skin vivid against the darkness. Watching. Silent. It’s almost more disturbing than the nightmares. He certainly doesn’t get any more rest on the nights he’s drawn into the Void.

Daud works steadily on the anniversary itself, wanting to keep his hands busy so he isn’t plagued by memories of that day. Bad enough that it haunts his dreams in the weeks leading up to it.

“You look more tired than usual,” his employer says, reaching up to tug Daud’s surgical mask free.

He steps back smoothly, his reflexes still as sharp as they have ever been. “That’s just my face.” He’s lucky that his employer isn’t in the habit of keeping up with the news, and that his distinctive mug wasn’t recognized at that initial interview.

His employer hums. “If you say so. Your work hasn’t been affected, so I won’t say anything more on the subject— but you’re allowed a holiday or two.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he lies.

That earns him a look, but her assistant comes in a moment later with some new crisis for them to deal with and the matter is dropped.

* * *

Duke Theodanis dies not long after; his surviving son, Luca, is crowned within the week. The country mourns Theodanis, though Luca does not give them much opportunity to do it. After an extravagant funeral, the new Duke throws himself into governing with fervour, if not particular skill or foresight.

Plans are drawn up for a new ducal palace with such speed that Daud wonders whether they’d been commissioned before Theodanis’ corpse was even cold. Demolition of the old palace begins before the month is out. Luca attempts to increase the silver quotas as well, though he has less success on that front. The Silver Spike runs articles about the struggles between the Duke and Aramis Stilton, the mining baron, every other day.

Daud reads those stories with relish. He’s had a subscription to the Silver Spike since the first month he settled in Karnaca, but he rarely does more than skim the front page for news ever since he took his current job. Reading about Luca’s negotiations with Stilton is a good start to his mornings. He still remembers Lurk telling him, haltingly, about her friend Deirdre, the year after he’d taken her in. Murdered by Radanis Abele, who was goaded into the act by his older brother, Luca.

Lurk had described the two men as the worst sort of entitled nobles. From what Daud’s seen of Luca’s reign so far, he’s inclined to agree. Witnessing his brother’s murder had apparently had no positive impact on the new Duke. But perhaps it’s still too early to tell.


	5. haunt me in my sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for: character death (an adolescent is killed in the first scene), slight violence and referenced (but not explicitly described) mutilation
> 
> I think that about covers it, but if you would like me to add any other warnings, please let me know!

The morning ferry is usually packed, and today is no exception. People mill around the dock at Campo Seta, talking amongst themselves as they wait for the boat. Half a squad of the Grand Guard lingers nearby, watching the crowd in a bored fashion; wary, but not truly expecting any sort of trouble. The officer in charge leans against the wall at the foot of the staircase leading up to the street, smoking a cigarette. His face is red under the brim of his helmet, sweat beading on his skin despite the early hour.

Not a native of Serkonos, by the looks of it. His eyes are an icy shade of blue, and his hair is so fair it looks white in the morning sunlight. Tyvian, if Daud had to guess, and newly assigned; Daud hasn’t seen his face before, though he used to recognize most of the regular guards and officers assigned to the district. Ever since Duke Theodanis passed away, there’ve been changes in the ranks. Shuffled assignments, promotions and greater authority for the guards— Daud wouldn’t be surprised if Luca Abele didn’t have more reforms waiting to be implemented.

Politics were never Daud’s concern, though the people who hired him had certainly had opinions on the topic. It’s even less of his business now, but Daud can see the effects a ruler has on their people with his own two eyes here in a way he hadn’t in Dunwall. Not until Burrows had gotten his hands on the reins of the city, at least, and then Daud hadn’t been able to ignore the consequences of his own actions any longer.

“Please, my son needs help!”

The cry cuts through the general hum of conversation, the speaker staggering into view with a semi-conscious young man - little more than a boy, fourteen at the most - clinging to her shoulder at the top of the stairs.

“Oh,” the mother gasps, “thank the stars, the ferry hasn’t come yet.”

“It _hurts_ ,” the young man moans, lolling in his mother’s grasp and nearly sending them both tumbling down the steps. His skin is swollen, blotchy and red. Bloodfly stings.

The closest people, mainly guards, scatter away from her, making no move to help the woman as she gingerly descends the stairs to the docks.

Pathetic. Daud feels his lip curl behind his mask and starts to push his way through the stunned crowd on the docks to go help her. Another side effect of Duke Luca’s ascension was cutbacks to the bloodfly extermination program. Cases of infestation rose almost immediately, leading to more work for the already short-staffed crews of exterminators and an increase in bloodyfly sting victims—

A powder keg waiting for a spark to set it all alight, in essence.

“Stay back!” the officer shouts, his cigarette falling unheeded to the ground. The people closest to him gasp and press back, preventing Daud from reaching the woman, as the man fumbles for his pistol. “Just stay back!”

“Wait—!”

The crack of the gunshot drowns out the rest of Daud’s words, and the screams of the young man’s mother silence whatever else Daud might have said.

Daud snarls and shoves through the crowd, halting beside mother and son. The boy gasps wetly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and pooling beneath his body. It soaks into the knees of his mother’s trousers as she cradles him close. Even if he was taken to Addermire immediately, the doctors there wouldn’t be able to do anything for him.

“He’s infected! Stay away from him, do you want to get stung!?” the officer shouts, the pistol trembling in his hands.

“Sir,” a regular guard says carefully. “He was stung by the bloodflies, not— infested. They only make nests out of dead bodies.”

“W-we just wanted to take the ferry!” the mother sobs, clutching the still body to her chest. “Benny was stung on his way to school, the nest must have come up overnight—!” She dissolves into wails, inconsolable.

“How was I to know!?” The officer’s shouts draw Daud’s attention again. He’s holstered his gun, at least, but now he’s screaming at the unfortunate guard who’d spoken up earlier. Daud takes a step toward him, intending to— he’s not entirely certain yet, but something will come to him, surely. “Outsider’s crooked cock— they don’t have fucking bloodflies in Tyvia!”

“Sir—”

“Someone clean up this fucking mess! Get this woman out of my sight!” The officer gestures wildly, almost as hysterical as the mother of the boy he just murdered.

Another pair of guards approaches her, one of them crouching down to try and pry the body from her. She screams at them and lashes out with her free hand, the other clutching her child closer.

“Ma’am, let him go,” the guard says in a soothing voice, leaning away from her desperate strikes.

“No! Benny! Someone help us—!” She shrieks as the other guard backhands her, and the first swiftly pulls the boy’s body away.

Daud clenches his hands into fists, his fingers itching for the hilt of a blade, or a pistol. It isn’t the first time he’s contemplated breaking his vow to never take another life, but it’s the first time that he meant it seriously. He’s not the only one; the crowd of people are muttering to themselves at his back, watching the scene unfold with obvious unease.

But no one moves to help, or to stop the guards from taking the woman and her dead son away.

“What are you looking at?” the officer snarls; the others shrink away, but Daud meets his gaze squarely, unfazed as the man stalks into his space. This close, Daud can see the wild look in his eyes; his sunburnt skin glistens with sweat. The collar of his uniform is undone, probably in a vain attempt not to overheat. The difference in climate from the northern Isle must be extreme.

Daud stares at the column of his neck, imagines wrapping his hands around it and squeezing until the officer is as still as the boy he’d shot. It’s a messy way to kill someone, not remotely efficient, but it gets the job done—

“Don’t hurt him!”

The cry comes from someone in the crowd behind him, drawing Daud from his murderous thoughts. It takes him a moment to realize they’re imploring the officer not to hurt _Daud_. The thought is so absurd that he nearly laughs.

“Yeah, walk away,” the officer jeers at his back, and it’s only the knowledge that dozens of eyes are on him that stops Daud from turning to kill the man where he stands.

The ferry arrived during the commotion. The people waiting to board part wordlessly before Daud, allowing him to get on first. He settles into his customary seat in the corner, arms crossed over his chest. He hasn’t felt this leashed, violent anger in years. He closes his eyes and listens to the subdued murmuring of the people around him as the ferry pulls away from Campo Seta.

* * *

“By the Void, Daud, are you all right?” Alfonso asks him that night. Despite the fact that he’d avoided entering through the bar, as was his habit, his landlord and maybe-friend had somehow sensed Daud’s arrival and cornered him at the foot of the stairs.

Daud leans around him, looking pointedly at the light spilling past the door to the bar. The usual sounds of merrymaking are loud in the hallway, all laughter and loud voices and lively music— things that Daud has no wish to hear at the moment.

Alfonso doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Tea would be nice,” he says mildly.

“Don’t you have a business to run?” Daud demands, his temper running high; it has since this morning, since some idiot officer decided to shoot an injured child. The worst of it is, he’ll probably get away with it too.

“They can manage without me for one night.” Alfonso crosses his arms over his chest, his expression as mild as voice; not confrontational, but implacable all the same.

Daud bites back a snarl and turns to the stairs. “Make yourself at home, then, you own the damn building,” he growls over his shoulder. While it might be satisfying - if only briefly - to stomp up the two flights of stairs to his apartment, Daud isn’t quite so childish, and has yet to fall out of the habit of walking softly.

“Thank you,” Alfonso says, and follows him up.

Daud’s out of tea, but he isn’t in the mood for coffee either. He doesn’t keep any alcohol in his apartment since he can get a drink on the infrequent occasions he wants one from the bar downstairs. He wants a drink now, but he doesn’t want to go back to the bar and he somehow doubts Alfonso will be willing to fetch him something.

The other man sits on his shitty couch without complaint, watching as Daud paces restlessly before him.

It isn’t as if this morning was the first time that Daud has seen a child die in front of him. Daud himself had never taken out contracts on kids back in Dunwall, out of some twisted remnant of idealism and then a stubborn refusal to go back on his principles, as ridiculous as some of them seemed in hindsight with the blood of an Empress on his hands and the weight of an entire city on his back. 

Too little, too late.

He could have saved the child, could have stopped the officer from shooting or plucked the bullet out of the air or gotten the boy and his mother out of the way. The options were endless, all tied to the mark on the back of his hand that has remained dull and unused since he came to Karnaca. Instead, he did nothing, and now a child was dead; who knew what would become of his mother.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alfonso asks some time later.

“No,” Daud snaps, but he collapses into the armchair opposite him a moment later. He braces his elbows on his knees and presses his hands over his face. His gloves smell like blood and antiseptic, just different enough from how it was in Dunwall that he can keep them separate. “The Duke’s cutting funding—”

“ _What_?” Alfonso sounds outraged. When Daud risks a look through his splayed fingers, his friend looks genuinely upset. “How can he— That’s ridiculous!”

Daud smiles grimly, though the expression is hidden by his mask and his hands. “He has to pay the wages of these shit Grand Guard officers somehow.”

“There must be a reason for this,” Alfonso mutters, retracing Daud’s steps. Unlike Daud, his is a face more suited to smiling and laughter; to see it pulled down into a frown bothers Daud. “I lodged a complaint with the Captain in charge of Campo Seta. That’s all I could do! The guard taking the complaint told me that the bastard will probably just get reassigned.”

Daud leans back, curling his hands into fists. It’s a poor outlet for his anger, but it’s the only one he’s willing to resort to at the moment. “Politics,” he says sardonically, tracking Alfonso’s progress back and forth across the room.

“Duke Theodanis was _never_ like this,” Alfonso says. “He practically built this city from the ground up! And now his son wants to just tear it down, like he did with the old palace.”

Daud sees the ridiculous eyesore that Luca had built to replace it every morning on the ferry, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

“But, they’re not letting you go, are they?” Alfonso asks, his tone calm again.

Daud blinks, startled; it takes him a moment to realize what Alfonso’s referring to. “No, of course not. There’s still work to do and people to pay us for it. But we’ll have to raise our rates and research is going to be cut back.” It makes Daud angry all over again just thinking about it. “Private donors can make up some of the difference but I doubt it will cover all of it.”

Alfonso’s frown deepens but he merely shakes his head.

“Anyway, the boss doesn’t feel right about using test subjects if we can’t offer proper compensation, so if you think I’m acting strangely, send for someone immediately,” Daud adds. His tone falls somewhere closer to sardonic than the lightness he was aiming for, but it’s better than nothing. “Probably a local doctor, since we’ll be testing on ourselves.”

“You shouldn’t experiment on yourselves!” Alfonso sounds horrified.

It’s what Daud had told his employer and her assistant but he’d been overruled by their martyr complexes. They wouldn’t even let him argue that he should be the only one acting as a test subject, given his incomplete education (and sordid past, not that he mentioned that part). No, the _three_ of them would be lab rats, because that was obviously the only sensible alternative.

Daud shrugs, willing himself not to get angry about it again. “I’m sure it will be fine. It’s a health tonic, not some kind of invasive procedure.”

“As you say.” Alfonso still looks doubtful, but he defers to Daud’s experience and, mercifully, changes the subject. “You’re a rather poor host, friend. Do you want to get a drink?”

Daud wants to accept the offer, but he has absolutely no intention of setting foot in the bar.

“At my apartment,” Alfonso clarifies, correctly interpreting his silence. “It even has two comfortable pieces of furniture.”

Daud glares at him, more for form’s sake than out of any real annoyance. “You’re the one who rudely invited himself in.” But he’s already standing.

Alfonso smiles weakly and leads him out.

* * *

Daud wakes up with a splitting headache and no memories past taking the modified tonic. Presumably, it’s the morning after. Apparently he made it back to his apartment and passed out half-off his uncomfortable couch; it’s better than sleeping out on the street, but not by much.

His back cracks ominously when he manages to stagger to his feet, but when he peers into the battered silver tray he repurposed as a mirror, he looks only a little worse for wear. The bags under his eyes seem more pronounced, which makes sense considering he doesn’t feel like he’d rested at all. The rest of his body aches, but it’s nothing remarkable and only to expected given how and where he woke up.

Daud stretches, groaning loudly, then catches sight of the clock on the shelf and realizes he’s late for work. Cursing, he splashes a bit of water on his face - it’s not as if he’d win any beauty contests on a good day - and pulls on a surgical mask before running out the door.

He nearly mows Alfonso down on the stairs, pausing to steady him and utter hurried apologies.

Alfonso just laughs, unconcerned by the near-collision. “Someone had a good night! I thought I heard you sneaking in a couple hours before dawn.”

“It’s not like that,” Daud protests, annoyed at the implication.

“As you say, friend.” He can tell Alfonso’s still laughing inwardly, though. But Daud doesn’t have time to set his friend straight, so he settles on a half-hearted glare before continuing down the stairs.

* * *

“That was— _terrible_ ,” the assistant says when Daud reaches work. He looks as awful as Daud feels.

“Was it? I don’t remember any of it,” Daud admits. “I do feel like shit, though.” He takes a sip of water; anything stronger, even tea, and he feels like his stomach might rebel.

“I thought that was just your face.” The assistant looks horrified when Daud slowly turns his head to stare at him in astonishment. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Daud laughs, though it makes his head hurt after a few seconds so he quickly stops. “I’ve said it often enough myself.”

“Yes, well—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Daud says, and means it. He downs the rest of his glass with a grimace, then hooks the straps of his mask back around his other ear. “Let’s get this over with, that line up of people isn’t going to take care of itself.” As much as the thought of dealing with the public today pains him, the work has to get done.

“Yes, let’s,” comes the quick agreement; someone’s eager to put the conversation behind them.

“Did our illustrious leader make it in?” Daud asks as they head for the consultation room.

“Not that I saw.”

“Damn, I should’ve stayed home too,” Daud mutters. The headache’s eased a bit, but he still feels worse than he can remember feeling for years. “It was a joke!” he adds, when the assistant shoots him a reproachful look.

“We’ll just have to work harder in her absence,” he declares, ignoring Daud’s groan at the pronouncement.

* * *

BRUTAL MURDER, blares the latest headline from the Silver Spike the next day. Daud wrinkles his nose as he sips at his coffee; the Silver Spike is usually free of such sensationalist “news”, unlike the Karnaca Gazette, which is little more than a mouthpiece for the new Duke. He flips the paper open, scoffing when he sees the picture beneath the headline. According to the caption, it is a hand-drawn copy of a silvergraph taken of the crime scene. Rendered in black and white, it is nearly illegible, but Daud can make out the dismembered corpse and splatters of blood all the same.

The murder - of an officer of the Grand Guard, slaughtered in his home - is the subject of much debate on the morning’s ferry. The boat is packed as usual, and every second person seems to be clutching a copy of the Silver Spike or the Karnaca Gazette— mostly the former.

“But what kind of sick person could even do that?” one woman asks, hugging her young child close. The boy coughs, and tries to squirm free. “They said his daughter found him! She wasn’t _twelve_.”

Daud resists the urge to roll his eyes, watching as the young boy in her arms eagerly takes in the bloody scene splashed across the front page of the paper held by the man beside them.

“They say the Empress saw her mother die,” a miner says, his voice hoarser than Daud’s - he must have worked the silver mines for years. “And she turned out fine, may she reign long.”

Daud feels his mood sour at the mention of the Empress, though his frown is mostly hidden by his mask.

“What do you think?” The question comes from the young man squashed into the seat next to him, the bulk of his cast forcing him to sit awkwardly close to Daud.

“It’s gruesome,” Daud says shortly. That kind of savagery is unnecessary; he’d never engaged in that sort of brutality when he took out his marks. It wasn’t about enjoyment to him; it was a job, and he got it done. But this murder doesn’t seem motivated by greed, or at least not entirely. “I hope the Grand Guard finds the killer.”

The ferry pulls up at the dock a moment later and everyone becomes concerned with disembarking, the shocking murder forgotten.

* * *

Dunwall, in those days under Burrows’ reign, was a basically lawless place. Gangs ruled most of the streets - all of them, if one included the City Watch as a gang, which was what it became during those long six months without a Kaldwin on the throne - and people died in droves every day. If not by the plague, then they were murdered, and their killers - not the Whalers, who had stopped taking contracts under Daud’s orders, but other gang members and even indiscriminate guards in the City Watch were among those number - usually got away without consequences.

Karnaca hasn’t reached that point yet, and Daud hopes it won’t. Luca Abele isn’t the most responsible or compassionate ruler, but Daud trusts that he wants his wealth and line to continue, if nothing else. The Grand Guard is afforded greater liberties under Luca’s reign, but they don’t betray their duty. People are still murdered from gang violence, as the Howlers claw with other gangs and the Grand Guard for dominance of the streets, among other things, but their killers are sought out and punished, when possible. Murder isn’t so commonplace that people don’t react to it any longer.

PROMINENT CITIZEN BRUTALLY MURDERED, declares the latest headline from the Silver Spike. The Karnaca Gazette’s coverage of the killing is even more sensationalist, not that Daud expected anything better. He’s fairly certain that the victim - Correy Brockburn - and the Gazette’s editor were business partners or something.

According to the article, the murder was just as brutal as the one from half a year earlier, though the reporter doesn’t draw that comparison. The difference this time is that Brockburn’s killer left some kind of message written in his blood.

Something about the Empress. The article also mentions Brockburn’s opposition to Emily Kaldwin’s rule. Daud feels himself sneer. As if the young Empress has time for some self-important critic at the edge of the world; as if the Royal Protector and Spymaster, the man who crept through Dunwall without being seen and yanked the throne out from under Burrows’ bony ass, would be so crass as to instruct an agent to leave evidence that could point to the throne’s involvement. As if Corvo would even stoop to something so low as murder, when he hadn’t killed a soul in that hectic week after he’d escaped from prison.

Daud tosses the newspaper on the stack of old editions that he hasn’t gotten around to throwing away yet, drains the rest of his coffee, and leaves for work.

* * *

On one of his rare breaks alone, Daud stands on the balcony reserved for employees and smokes a quick cigarette. He watches the city, for lack of anything better to do. The glare of the sun off the water makes his head hurt, but he’s experienced far worse; he barely even notices it. The swift motion of a carriage traversing the rails from the nearest station catches his attention and he tracks its progress with his eyes.

The Duke’s continuous changes to Karnaca - and presumably the rest of Serkonos, though Daud hasn’t heard much about that - aren’t entirely negative or ridiculous. The rail carriage routes connecting various parts of the city are useful, though the price of a ride is so prohibitive that in reality only the elite can afford to use them on a regular basis; the station in front of Daud’s work is used almost exclusively by the upper class and his employer.

A small group of women disembark when the carriage reaches the station. They mill around for a moment, then make their way for the building’s front entrance. Their clothing is expensive but not flamboyant; they could be nobles, though they don’t have much reason to visit this place since Daud’s employer took over. The woman at the front stops and looks up at him, though from this distance he can’t make out any of her features, even in the sunlight.

Standing in the shadow of the building as he is, his face should be even less visible, but a frisson of unease runs through him as the seconds stretch out and the group of women just— stares at him. None of them look the least bit familiar to Daud but he can’t shake the feeling that somehow they recognize _him_ —

Daud exhales a lungful of smoke and stubs out what remains of his cigarette, pushing away from the railing and escaping their sight in the same motion. He tugs his surgical mask back up quickly, trying to ignore his sudden paranoia. No one he didn’t know _before_ has recognized him since Sylvio; surely a decade and change is long enough for his face to fade from memory.

The women have disappeared inside when Daud risks a glance down.

“Daud! Here you are.”

Daud flinches and turns to find the assistant standing in the doorway and frowning at his jumpiness. “What is it?”

“Ah— here.”

Daud blinks down at the pair of gloves held out before him, then up at the assistant. “What are these for?”

That earns him a frown. “You haven’t worn your gloves for a while now. I assumed they’d been ruined after the incident, and you simply hadn’t had the opportunity to replace them.”

A pain lances through his temple, an echo of the magnificent headache he woke up with the morning after said incident. He presses two fingers against his forehead for a moment, as if that can numb the phantom pain, then glances down at his hands. The skin there is slightly paler than that of his forearms from lack of sun. He had worn gloves, but— “I don’t need them anymore.”

“If you say so.” The assistant sounds confused, but tucks the gloves away. “You’re needed on the third floor when you’re done your break, but it didn’t sound too urgent. You can probably steal a few more minutes in the sun.”

Daud shakes his head, already moving towards the door. “I’m fine. I should get back anyway.” If he throws himself into his work, he can forget about everything else, at least for a while.

* * *

“Daud,” the creature that haunts the Void purrs, “ _old friend_.” As ever, the epithet sounds more like an insult than anything else. Fitting, for the black-eyed bastard. “How long it had been since we last spoke, and now here you are again. It’s been _too long_.”

Those final words roll over Daud with intangible but undeniable force, nearly deafening. He flinches away from the onslaught, taking a step backward only to find nothing but air behind him. He gasps as he plummets off the fragment of floating rock, the dark stone soon lost in the darkness that permeates the Void.

Impact, sudden and jarring. A searing pain suffuses his body; his vision goes black for what feels like an eternity.

Daud climbs to his feet when his vision clears. The island on which he finds himself is indistinguishable from the one before. Perhaps it is the same; perhaps he didn’t fall at all. He is unharmed, aside from an ache in one hand. He shivers; the unearthly chill of the Void feels like icy needles on his skin, sinking into his bones and taking root. He doesn’t belong here; never has. His sore hand flexes, curling and uncurling, as if to ease the ache.

The creature reappears next to him in a flurry of darkness, close enough for Daud to feel breath on his face, if such a creature could breathe, or had any need to do so. He flinches back again, unable to meet those dark, dark eyes.

“It’s so _interesting_ to watch you struggle to undo what you’ve done,” the pale figure sneers. “But can you really make up for it all? Murdering an Empress. Stopping another who would take her place. Taking lives for coin. Trying to save them. It would take more years than you have left in your miserable life to atone for all the blood you’ve spilled and all the lives you ruined.”

“I know I can’t.” Daud grits the words out past chattering teeth. Has the Void ever been so cold before? So unforgiving—? A reflection of its master, perhaps. “So why don’t you shut the fuck up and leave me the hell alone.”

That draws the black-eyed bastard up short. A look of astonishment flickers across those pale features, but the sneer soon returns. “That’s right. You can’t. No matter how you try to change, you’ll never be anything more than a worthless butcher, blade in bloody hand.”

Dark tendrils curl up from the shadows surrounding them, twining around Daud’s legs to root him in place as the creature looms closer. He has no choice but to stare into those darkly glittering eyes, and what he sees within them chills him to the core, stealing away what little bit of warmth had managed to remain in the cold.

“But I’m not _done_ with you yet,” the black-eyed bastard whispers, a threat and a promise in one.

The shrilling of his alarm jolts him awake. He’s got the damn thing in hand and thrown before he realizes it; it hits the wall with a crunch, and is mercifully silent.

Daud shivers, despite the sun rising just over the horizon, and gets out of bed to start preparing for the day.


	6. I'm letting go of it

“You’re back,” a client says, smiling.

“I do take a day off now and then,” Daud says, helping the elderly woman outside. The fresh air off the bay is good for everyone, as is the sun shining brightly above them.

“Was it only a day? Goodness, it felt like so much longer,” the woman says, leaning on him a bit more heavily than Daud thinks is strictly warranted as they make their slow way to the railing.

“Missed my dulcet tones, have you, Lady Barrera?”

“Yes, exactly!” She makes no effort to transfer her weight to the railing as they gaze out at the water; Daud rolls his eyes, but it’s harmless enough. When the arm she has wrapped around his waist starts to venture lower, however, Daud draws the line.

“If you’re getting tired, we can go back inside,” he says pointedly.

Lady Barrera releases him and shuffles a shaky, hesitant step to the side, putting a few scant inches between them. “No, no, the sun feels quite invigorating today,” she says, inhaling deeply to punctuate the statement. She dissolves into a coughing fit and Daud has to grab for her shoulder so she doesn’t go over and, with his luck, break a hip when she hits the floor.

“Ten more minutes,” Daud says, patting her back as the fit subsides.

“Yes,” she murmurs, leaning heavily against him again. It doesn’t seem feigned this time, but Daud quashes his guilt and endures it. “Nasty business in the city recently,” she says slowly, between laboured breaths.

“How so?” Daud keeps his tone neutral; Lady Barrera was a fervent supporter of Theodanis, and seems to have transferred that affection onto Luca, despite his mismanagement of Karnaca.

“Why, all those murders! First Correy Brockburn, that Regenter fool, and then all the other idiots in on it with him—” She shakes her head, the lines of her face deepening as she frowns out at the bay. “Janice Tines, you know, the editor of the Karnaca Gazette? She was murdered two days ago!”

Daud massages his temple with his free hand; he can feel a headache coming on at the mere mention of the so-called Crown Killer murders. It’s all anyone talks about these days. On the morning ferry, there was a lot of speculation about the latest bloody message - THE CROWN KILLER IS WATCHING - left by the murderer. The ridiculous moniker, coined by the Dunwall Courier, was splashed all over the Karnaca Gazette and the Silver Spike; now that the murderer’s adopted it for their own, it won’t be going away any time soon.

“That’s right. It was all over the papers this morning,” he says. “But how did you hear about it?”

Lady Barrera smiles up at him. “Oh, my son smuggles me the Gazette every day. Well, he doesn’t do it _himself_ , but he pays a courier.”

Daud glances over the bay, so she can’t see him rolling his eyes. Spirits forbid the man visit his mother and bring the damn paper himself. “Of course he does.”

Apparently satisfied with the day’s gossip, Lady Barrera falls silent. They stand there quietly for another fifteen minutes before Daud takes her back inside.

* * *

Daud wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth; his jaw aches from how hard he’d been grinding his teeth together.

His dreams have been disturbed lately. If they’re not conjurations of the brutal Crown Killer murders, he’s taunted by the dark-eyed creature that haunts the Void. Thankfully, everything but a few disjointed details fades from his mind within moments of waking.

The copper tang lingers. Daud presses a tongue to his cheek, probing at the ragged skin there; he must have bitten it in his sleep. He rises, rubbing a hand over his cheek, wincing as the dull ache blooms into pain.

He makes his way to the makeshift mirror. The outline of a bruise just coming in curves over his cheekbone. He must have tossed and turned last night, to maul his cheek so hard it bled and left a bruise.

Then again, he’s getting old.

Daud splashes some water over his face and rinses his mouth, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep and washing away the taste of blood. The surgical mask goes on, covering most of the blooming bruise, then he leaves for work.

The assistant notices the splotch of discoloured skin a few hours later, a crease appearing between his brows when he spots it.

“Are you all right?” He always looks and sounds so sincere that it still unnerves Daud at times, despite the nearly five years they’ve worked together.

“I’m fine,” Daud says. His cheek throbs every time he speaks, but it’s hardly the worst pain he’s ever suffered. The steady aching of the scar carved into his side by Corvo whenever it rains is worse, and he has to deal with that more often than he’ll have this bruise.

The assistant studies Daud for a moment longer, as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but he doesn’t bring it up again.

No one else sees the bruise, or if they do, they don’t mention it. Either alternative suits Daud just fine.

* * *

An officious looking man followed by a trio of Grand Guards nearly runs him over when he goes to walk in the front door. He steps aside, returning the other man’s glare but biting his tongue as the guards follow him towards the rail carriage station. Not worth the trouble.

“What’s going on?” he asks Joe, who’s standing just inside the entrance, frowning at their retreating backs.

“Apparently the Duke sent over some art to show his appreciation for our work,” Joe says, unimpressed.

Daud scoffs. _Art_. More funding for his employer would be a practical contribution, but doing _that_ might mean that Luca could only hold his outrageous feasts and orgies once a month rather than every two weeks. “I hope it’s not one of those mass-produced paintings. I could scrounge one of those up in any condemned building.”

“Not everyone is so comfortable with bloodflies,” Joe says, disapproving. Daud regrets telling him that he sometimes burns nests that he comes across, if only so other people won’t have to deal with the dangerous pests. Then he grins, glancing sidelong at Daud. “Besides, I got a peek earlier. It’s a portrait. Interesting style.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Daud’s interest in art extends only to (futilely) tracking down that damn portrait Sokolov painted of him.

“What, Sokolov didn’t teach you about that shit in the Academy?”

“I only studied for a couple of seasons,” Daud says. “I didn’t have the privilege of Sokolov’s lectures on art theory.” Not that he would’ve attended such a course back then, even had it been available to him.

“Is that a thing he teaches? Taught,” Joe corrects; Sokolov stepped down from his roles as Royal Physician and Head of the Academy of Natural Philosophy a few years ago. “Guess it makes sense. He’s a famous artist and all that.”

“No idea.” Daud smirks when Joe glares at him indignantly.

“Asshole,” Joe mutters, shaking his head. “Think the boss said she’d hang it in her office or something, if you want to take a look.”

Daud shrugs, not particularly interested in the prospect. “And then I’ll ask Lady Barrera about her damn lapdogs, because I’d have to be bored out of mind—”

Joe snorts. “All right, your loss. I’m sure you’ll see it at some point, anyway.”

* * *

CROWN KILLER STRIKES GRISTOL, the headlines proclaim. A Gristolian victim this time: Daniel Pitt, the outspoken deputy governor of Whitecliff. Another critic of Emily Kaldwin’s reign, torn apart by the so-called Crown Killer. The Silver Spike doesn’t go into detail, but the Karnaca Gazette claims that investigators had found suspicious chunks of flesh missing from the corpse; an entire limb was unaccounted for.

Ritual murder, maybe? Daud hasn’t met any witches since _her_ , but there are countless desperate or twisted people willing to turn to magic to achieve their ends.

The Gazette goes on to speculate that Corvo Attano - or perhaps Emily Kaldwin herself - is behind the murders, as it has since its former editor was murdered. Preposterous. Corvo _spared_ Daud, and didn’t take a life in the time between escaping Coldridge and returning Emily to the throne. There’s no way the man or the daughter he raised would resort to such violent means to eliminate their opponents.

With Pitt’s murder - the first beyond Serkonos - the only connection that all of the victims share now is their opposition to the Empress. But that doesn’t mean Corvo or the Empress is behind their deaths.

It’s a mystery. Daud hates mysteries— and he owes Corvo his life; he owes Emily Kaldwin for murdering her mother before her eyes. These killing are obviously meant to destabilize the Empress’ rule, and if Spymaster Corvo is spread too thin to uncover the killer’s identity, someone else will have to do it for him.

Daud already has a lead; he suspects the Crown Killer had murdered another, unrelated victim first. The elite officer from Karnaca who was torn apart in his own home.

He rubs at his temples, feeling a headache starting to set in. It’s his day off. Perhaps he’ll pay that officer’s widow and daughter a visit.

* * *

“I still can’t believe they’re calling him the Crown Killer,” says a young man on the ferry to Campo Seta.

“How do you know they’re a man?” his partner demands.

“Well—”

“Everyone knows it’s the Royal Protector,” an older man puts in loftily.

“They do _not_ ,” the young woman retorts hotly.

Daud bites back a groan and rotates his neck, relaxing slightly when it cracks and some of his tension eases. His head still aches, but that’s nothing new these days.

“Just because some people who don’t like the Empress—”

“—who _else_ would want to kill all of them—”

“—don’t even know if they were killed by the same—”

“What do you think?” The young woman’s voice softens, and Daud blinks when he realizes she’s addressing him.

“About the murders?” Daud had been doing his best to tune out their raised voices, in the vain hope that he might catch a few minutes to nap.

“Yes. Are they connected?”

Daud thinks about it. There have been ten brutal murders over the course of the past year and a half, starting in Karnaca but spreading to Gristol, then Morley and Tyvia as well. Most of the crime scenes had ominous messages scrawled in the blood of the mutilated victims. The fact that they were all opposed in some way to the Empress seems significant as well.

“Probably,” he says. “Same gruesome deaths, similar political views, the messages in blood… I wouldn’t be surprised if they were targeted by the same person.”

“What did I tell you?” The older man smiles, smug. “It’s obviously the Royal Protector.”

“I didn’t say that.” The words come out more sharply than Daud means them to. “I don’t think Corvo Attano is the killer.”

“You think it’s the Empress then?” The young woman this time, far too eager at the prospect.

“Of course not!” Daud takes a slow breath when the others flinch back at his growl. “Anyone wanting to make the Empress lose face could be behind the murders.”

“So, you think someone who doesn’t like the Empress… Is killing people who don’t like the Empress?” the young man asks.

Daud closes his eyes, grasping for patience. “The murders originated in Serkonos. That’s a lot of time for the Empress or the Royal Protector to be away from Dunwall. And _if_ it’s someone who wants to hurt the crown’s reputation by murdering outspoken critics, that doesn’t mean the mastermind isn’t one of those critics too. The nobles of each Isle aren’t that closely connected.”

A few people are nodding, but many of them don’t look convinced. The original arguers are silent, for the moment.

“Guess you _were_ educated at that Academy of Natural Philosophy in Gristol,” the young man concedes just as Daud shuts his eyes again, dashing any hopes of a nap. The docks draw closer every moment.

“Yes, but do you think the Crown Killer is a man or a woman?” the young woman presses.

“No idea.” Daud doesn’t bother to soften his tone at all this time. “Anyone can kill.”

“But that kind of brutality, surely a woman couldn’t—”

“ _Anyone_ can be driven to the brink,” Daud retorts, cutting the older man off. “There’s no telling anything about the killer, assuming it’s even the same person.”

The ferry pulls up to the dock then; as soon as they’ve docked properly and put down the gangplank, Daud’s the first one off.

* * *

The investigation into the Crown Killer moves slowly. Daud’s days are consumed by his work, and when he comes home at night he’s often tired or plagued by a headache, if not both at the same time.

Ominous red graffiti pops up across the city, proclaiming that THE CROWN KILLER’S WATCHING. But the message is written in paint, not blood - Daud checks - so it’s probably being put up by idiots who don’t know any better, or malicious people that do but still like the way Karnaca’s streets change as fear sinks into the population.

Either way, he doubts the murderer is defacing the walls of condemned buildings and alleys on their own, so he pays it little mind. The Crown Killer obviously preoccupies the minds of Karnaca’s citizens, a morbid interest that is renewed with every new victim reported upon by the newspapers; it isn’t surprising that the people are lashing out.

There are no witnesses to any of the murders in Karnaca that Daud can find, which is uniquely frustrating. None of the victims died quickly or painlessly, but no neighbours or family members or coworkers that Daud can find have any information for him. The stories they tell him are mostly the same— the victim was working late, or home alone, and it wasn’t until the next morning that their mutilated body was found.

It doesn’t make sense. The Knife of Dunwall and his men were consummate professionals when it came to murder, but it was a rare job that went off entirely without a hitch— and their victims were all killed as swiftly and silently as possible. Unless someone is eliminating the witnesses, or somehow ensuring that no one else is around to see or hear the murder, _someone_ should have noticed _something_.

Daud’s frustrating lack of progress makes him feel the absence of the Whalers all the more keenly. It reminds him of those months after killing Jessamine, when the only thing that kept him going was the mystery of a name that the black-eyed bastard had dangled in front of his face. Even employing most of his considerable resources to uncover leads about the witch, it had taken months before Lurk found anything.

But had it really been that long? The witch had turned Lurk against him; who knew how long his second had had the information before she deigned to bring it to Daud? Perhaps it’s for the best that Daud is alone in this now. The Crown Killer is more obviously dangerous than the witch, though the scope of their ambition is much more limited from what Daud has seen. Steps in a larger plan whose outlines he cannot yet make out? Or merely the actions of a deranged and misguided supporter of Empress Emily?

Daud isn’t the only one looking into the Crown Killer. The Duke’s men have an investigation into the murders as well, though they do not seem particularly zealous about it; worried about drawing the ire of the murderer, probably. If only Daud could confront the Crown Killer that way— he hasn’t used a blade for anything more vicious than cutting up ingredients or components in years, but he still practices when he can. He was no Corvo Attano, even at his peak, but swordsmen of Corvo’s calibre are rare indeed and Serkonos has already produced one in this lifetime. Daud doesn’t imagine the Crown Killer would be able to beat him in a fight.

At a loss, a few months after the death of yet another victim - this one in Morley - Daud breaks into the barracks of the Grand Guard to find out what evidence the officers assigned to the investigation have uncovered. He can’t exactly take the time off from work to go north to Gristol, much less Morley or Tyvia, not without more compelling proof to justify it. Besides, he can’t shake the conviction that the Crown Killer is operating out of Serkonos.

The files about the victims don’t reveal much that Daud doesn’t know. Personal details that he hadn’t uncovered, like the dates and places of their birth, are useless to him. The only correlation between the victims is their political leanings, which Daud had already known. Daud writes down a list of the officers involved in the investigation; it could be useful later, if he needs to track them down and question them.

Sneaking back out is as easy as it was to get in. The armoury is more heavily guarded, but the offices have only a few guards patrolling this late; Daud bypasses the former and slips back out into the night.

* * *

He’s on his way home one evening when a hand brushes against his coin pouch, light enough that someone other than Daud probably wouldn’t have noticed. Unfortunately for the would-be thief, Daud notices; he turns, grasping the offender’s wrist in a punishing grip and using it to twist their arm behind their back.

The young man gasps in surprised pain, nearly losing his footing as Daud forces him into a nearby alley.

“Ah— it’s me! Don’t you remember—”

“You’re not one of my men.” Daud glares at the man’s face in profile, his grip unrelenting. He can almost feel the delicate bones in the young man’s wrist grinding together.

“I-I know! But we met on the way to Bastillian— I’m Sylvio, remember?” His voice cracks, going high with pain and fear.

Daud flinches and releases him, stepping back quickly. Of course. Sylvio. “Sorry,” he says gruffly, the apology slipping from him more readily than it would have in the past.

Sylvio rubs at his wrist, ducking his head. “‘s all right, guess I startled you.”

That’s no excuse for Daud not recognizing him, even if several years and most of puberty have changed the boy Daud remembers into a young man, but he takes the offered out. “I’ve been looking into some unsavoury things,” he says. It’s a weak excuse, but his dreams have been dark and bloody of late, leaving him tired and on edge.

“Yeah?” There’s that curious, mischievous glint Daud remembers. Sylvio’s closer to Daud’s height, his hair cropped short on the sides and fluffed up on the top— he must be twenty-four or twenty-five now. Has it really been over a decade since Daud first met him? But it’s obvious now that he’s the boy Daud knew. “Like what, Mr. Knife?”

“Don’t call me that,” Daud retorts automatically.

Sylvio grins. “I won’t if you tell me what’s got you so jumpy.”

Daud sobers quickly. “It’s dangerous, Sylvio. I don’t want you to get involved.”

“Uh, remember what happened last time you tried to duck out?” Sylvio rolls his eyes, as if their earlier confrontation is already forgotten and they’re friends again; as if Daud hadn’t left without explanation, or even a farewell. “C’mon, tell me!”

So Daud takes Sylvio back to his apartment and tells him.

“Maybe you should get Rulfio and Rin in on this too,” Sylvio says when Daud’s finished. He’s more sombre now. “Didn’t you all used to do this kind of thing back in Dunwall?”

“We did,” Daud says vaguely, “but that was years ago.” He doesn’t want others involved. Even including Sylvio is a risk, but the young man asked for it. Daud won’t ask this of his men; they’ve done enough for him already.

“All right, well, let’s go over what you’ve found so far,” Sylvio says, thankfully dropping the subject.

* * *

Work continues. It’s meaningful and worthwhile, which is a welcome change from what he’d done in Dunwall.

His employer requires his assistance nearly every day, now. What they’re working on could change the lives of Karnaca’s citizens— perhaps even the lives of everyone in the Empire. The work isn’t without setbacks - sometimes he finds himself arguing vociferously with his employer, the frustration at stalled progress or a failed experiment boiling over - but they’re moving forward steadily.

With Sylvio’s help, the investigation goes much more smoothly. The young man can look into leads and track down information while Daud’s at work. Loathe as Daud is to admit it, Sylvio has seemingly endless energy and a boundless enthusiasm that buoys Daud as much as it makes him feel every single one of his fifty-six years. It reminds him, painfully, of Lurk.

Sylvio’s the same age she was when the witch got to her, but the differences in their temperaments are obvious. He’d moulded Lurk into a killer, and looking back he can’t be too surprised that she’d turned those skills back on him; Sylvio, found by Daud but mostly raised by Rulfio and Rinaldo, is a much happier young man. Still light-fingered and able to sneak through the dark with ease, but not honed so sharp that he cuts himself and everyone around him.

Daud had thought he was training those young men and women to survive. He supposes he had, but was it necessary? Sylvio laughs so freely, even while looking into the grim murders of the Crown Killer—

That’s in the past. All Daud can do now is look forward. They’re getting close to the Crown Killer, and he can’t afford any other distractions.

* * *

Sylvio’s sitting in his tiny kitchen, a half-eaten peach in his hand and focused entirely on a stack of old newspapers on the table in front of him, when Daud gets back from work.

“There you are!” He grins easily; somehow, he’s happy to see Daud. The ease with which he’s inserted himself into Daud’s life after over a decade’s absence would be unnerving were the familiarity not so— welcome. “You’re missing a few editions.”

“I get it delivered every day.” Daud strips off the mask, the tips of his fingers grazing against his cheek as he unhooks the strap from his ear; he’s smiling back. The only people he sees with any regularity these days are his employer and her assistant, and it’s— pleasant, seeing someone else. Work and his investigation have consumed his life, but Sylvio is somehow separate from all of that.

“Huh, well, someone swiped ‘em, maybe?” Sylvio’s brow furrows briefly, but then he shrugs. “No idea why they would, but whatever. Good for burning, at least.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Yeah. I think, uh—” Sylvio flips through the newspapers, emerging with an edition dated over two years ago. BRUTAL MURDER, screams the headline above a blurred rendition of the crime scene. “I think this guy was one of the Crown Killer’s first victims. Maybe the original victim. I went to his home in Upper Aventa—”

“—by yourself?” Daud demands. He can feel a headache coming on already.

“Yeah, it was fine,” Sylvio says, with the blithe disregard for danger that all young people have in some measure or another. “The place was closed up. Abandoned. All dusty too, like no one had been around in a long time.” Sylvio sinks his teeth into the peach, pausing to chew and swallow. “Neighbour thought maybe the family went back to Samara, but they left all their stuff behind if they did.”

“Strange.” Daud reaches out, taking the newspaper from Sylvio to examine the article for himself.

“Hey,” Sylvio says, “I meant to ask the other day. Noticed it when I was trying to take your coin, that’s what distracted me.”

Daud drops the paper back on the stack; squinting at faded newsprint isn’t helping his headache. He raises his eyebrows at Sylvio. “If you say I’m looking old—”

“Hm? You can’t be a day over sixty, Mr. Knife.” Sylvio beams at him, all innocence.

“Brat,” Daud grumbles, reaching out to ruffle the kid’s hair.

Sylvio ducks out of the chair, darting across the room to escape. But his laughter quickly fades into something more sombre. “Nah, but seriously, I was surprised to see you without gloves.” He taps the back of his left hand with a finger, eyebrows quirked.

Daud glances down at his hands. The skin is dark from the sun, criss-crossed with old scars; blade nicks and other casualties of his life. His temple throbs, a stabbing pain that makes him wince and press his fingers to his forehead.

“I don’t need them anymore,” he says.

“All right,” Sylvio says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “How was work?”

Daud feels a scowl settle over his face as he remembers.

Sylvio laughs. “That bad, huh?”

“Just a stupid argument,” Daud dismisses. “We should check the apartment again.”

“You think I missed something?” Sylvio presses a hand over his chest, feigning indignation. “That hurts, Mr. Knife.”


	7. tearing into me without teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for: character death, graphic depictions of violence, mutilation and torture. all that Crown Killer stuff.

“There you are!”

Daud looks up as he steps off the ferry, but it’s not Sylvio. He does recognize the speaker, a young woman around Sylvio’s age who lives on the same street as Daud, though he can’t recall ever exchanging words with her. Her face is pale, eyes wide with fear.

“What is it?” Daud asks, pushing away the exhaustion from work. “Is someone hurt—”

“Come see,” the girl says, which isn’t a denial, and takes off down the road at a brisk trot. Daud follows, something like dread taking root in his stomach.

The babble of a crowd reaches his ears before he rounds the corner and sees a number of his neighbours gathered at the mouth of an alley. Their voices are raised, a mixture of confusion and fear; there’s a cry of recognition as someone sees the girl leading him towards them.

Daud tenses instinctively, but they’re waving him over, everyone talking at once, impossible to decipher into something coherent. Daud’s headache doesn’t help matters, and the raised voices only exacerbate it.

“What?” he demands harshly, stepping forward warily. His hand curls and uncurls, restless.

“Your young man,” an older woman who lives on the floor above him begins.

“He’s not my young man, he’s—” Daud starts to snap irritably, but his voice dies in his throat as he pushes through the press of people clogging the mouth of the alley.

Sylvio’s eyes are wide and unseeing, cloudy in death. His neck is turned at an impossible angle— what remains of it, that is: his throat has been torn open, the white of his spine shocking against the rusty red of his flesh. His limbs are splayed wide, as if someone - _the Crown Killer_ \- had thrown him in the corner to rot in the darkness and the heat.

Daud takes a step forward, heedless of the bloodflies that buzz loudly and begin to glow in warning as he nears. Already, the damn things have made a nest in Syl— in the ki— in the corpse’s gut. He just saw Sylvio, how did—

How did this—

Daud snarls as a hand wrenches him back, lashing out instinctively; the man trying to pull him away shouts in pain as Daud breaks his nose. The crunch of cartilage giving way beneath his fist is satisfying but it’s not _enough_ , he wants to hear this bastard’s bones _snapping_ , to taste the sour-copper of adrenaline and—

A loud whistle splits the air, heralding the arrival of a squad of the Grand Guard. The blue-uniformed grunts shove aside those who aren’t scattering already, their officer barking orders. Daud backs up against the wall, the other man - Alfonso, Daud realizes dully - pressing himself against the opposite side of the alley, to allow the guards by.

“Dog attack,” the officer notes. “Damn Overseers need to control their beasts.”

“The Overseers don’t patrol here,” someone says bravely. “And their hounds are well-trained!”

“Is that so?” The officer sneers at the speaker, who quails beneath her gaze. “Well, what else tore out his throat? The bloodflies sure fucking didn’t.”

Daud stares at Sylvio’s body, his dark skin crawling with the deadly pests. A pair of masked guards hesitantly step closer; Daud sees the glow of incendiary bolts loaded into their crossbows too late.

“Don’t—”

Even the most incompetent lower guard in Dunwall could have hit a motionless target at this range. Daud barely hears the sound of the crossbow firing over the nearly simultaneous roar of the fire that consumes Sylvio’s corpse in a matter of seconds. When the flames die away just as swiftly, there’s nothing left but ash.

Alfonso ushers him up to his apartment, careful not to touch him or speak. Daud barely notices him; he’s forgotten the man by the time he closes and locks the door to his rooms.

There’s no sign that Sylvio had been sleeping on Daud’s shitty couch without complaint and eating his food and _smiling_ at Daud when he got back from work. The ragged blanket is folded over the back of the couch, as Daud always leaves it. His cupboards are about as bare as always; he’s lucky they have a dedicated kitchen staff at work. The only difference is his collection of old newspapers is gone. Sylvio must’ve taken them with him before he—

Before he—

Daud swallows down bile; tastes blood. He must’ve bitten through his cheek again. He slumps back against the front door, letting gravity drag him down. His first sob is loud in the ringing silence; the second is stifled by his fist, still bloody from breaking Alfonso’s nose earlier. The dingy floor blurs before him as tears well up in his eyes; he dashes them away with his free hand.

His thoughts turn in useless circles. They must have been close. Sylvio must have found something in an old article and gone looking when he should have waited for Daud. And now he’s dead.

The Crown Killer murdered him.

Daud presses the heel of his palms into his eyes until pale light bursts behind his eyelids. It hurts. His head pounds and his throat aches and it feels like something has been ripped out of _him_. He wishes it had been in truth. If only he’d been the one targeted—

Why is he always the one who survives?

Daud draws his knees to his chest and breaks down.

* * *

The Void is always cold, but it’s a dead chill. Despite the lazy motion of the fragments filling the vast space, there isn’t a breath of wind.

The cold that permeates this dream is different, tendrils of frosty air slipping under his sleeves and down his collar as the wind plucks at his clothes. He wishes he’d brought gloves; wonders briefly why he hadn’t, when he always— but it’s a distant concern, slipping away as the finer details tend to do in dreams.

The moon hangs overhead, a sharpened crescent that reminds him of a blade; the pale light it reflects upon the snowy street casts plenty of shadows for him to slip through, nothing to mark his passage but footsteps in the snow that are swiftly obscured again.

A large manor, some noble’s estate, looms in front of him. And then, in the manner of dreams, he’s inside, stalking the halls of the vast house. The fireplaces have been banked for the night, embers glowing faintly in the hearths. He checks every room, but they’re all empty. The servants have been sent home for the night, and the noble that lives here has no other family in the city.

The man himself sits at the desk in his office, hunched over some document or other. His pen scratches at the paper, the sound drowned out periodically by the crackling of the fire. This fire has been fed recently, its flames casting the room in warm hues. The noble writes by its light, and the light from a single candle on the corner of the desk.

The noble looks up, startled, when the door opens. His surprise quickly fades to anger as he pushes away from the desk. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?!”

Time shifts again, and the noble’s face is ruined and bloody, screwed up with fear and pain. He drags himself away with one arm, the other a twisted dead weight at his side, but he’s moving far too slowly to escape. The noble’s fate was sealed as soon as he arrived, but they always think they can wriggle out of their deaths, somehow.

“Please—” the noble sobs out, the word garbled, as he follows behind leisurely. The noble coughs, shaking, and spits out a fragment of tooth. “Please, I have money— Name your price—” His words dissolve into a scream that nearly drowns out the crack of the noble’s fibula giving way beneath his boot. The noble spasms as he grinds his foot down, relishing the sounds of the broken bones and the man’s pained cries.

He steps back, allowing the noble a few gasping seconds of reprieve, before bringing the heel of his boot down on the fingers of his good hand. He crouches down, the redistribution of his weight crushing any of those delicate bones that might have been unscathed in the initial strike. It doesn’t matter either way; the noble’s as good as dead, and it looks like he’s finally accepted that.

Good. The screaming was getting tedious. He didn’t enjoy it _before_ , and it’s grating on his nerves now, the high-pitched sound like knives in his ears. His head throbs—

“What do you _want_?” the noble whimpers. His face is wet with tears and blood and spittle, his left eye swollen shut. The right is bloodshot, pupil blown and fixed on him. The noble twitches and whines when he braces one hand on his bad shoulder, digging his fingers in where he’d popped the joint out of its socket. “I-I’ll support the Empress—”

Human skin is so delicate. Apply enough pressure with even the relatively dull edge of, say, human teeth, and it gives way with ease. The meat beneath it is more resistant; the cartilage of the trachea, for example, is resistant to tearing in such a savage manner. Far simpler to pierce it with a knife, and then get down to the rest of it.

The hilt sits in his palm with the familiarity of a pair of long gloves. He once used a knife nearly every day, though that time is long passed.

The noble’s screams cut off abruptly; it’s a quicker end than he deserves, but his cries were getting to be too much. The blood is hot against his face; he closes his eyes instinctively against the spray. He was never this sloppy back then, but that was a different time. Now, the blood drips down his cheeks and nose, past his lips and onto his tongue, a familiar, feverish tang—

Daud wakes up gasping, soaked with sweat and shivering hard, his blanket a tangled heap on the floor beside the bed. He has to swallow three times to make the phantom taste of blood fade from his mouth.

He pulls the blanket back over himself with a shaking hand. The fabric is clammy with sweat, and does little to stave off the shivers wracking his body, but Daud curls up beneath it all the same. His dreams have been more vivid since Sylvio— since Sylvio. The only mercy is that his mind has yet to conjure the events of Sylvio’s murder at the Crown Killer’s hands, though Daud’s endured nightmares of most of the Crown Killer’s other victims, especially the recent ones.

But that’s all they are— nightmares. Fevered conjurations of the things that preoccupy his mind in the waking hours.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

* * *

The path from his apartment to the dock is a familiar one, but Daud feels ill at ease as soon as he steps out onto the street. It’s more than the lingering malaise from another nightmare, be it of the Void and the black-eyed bastard’s taunts or his troubled mind’s imagining of the Crown Killer’s murders; the feeling intensifies as Daud makes his way down the street.

He comes to a sudden stop at the street corner and turns sharply, his eyes scanning the darkened doorways lining the street and other shadows cast by the early morning sun. The street is deserted, apart from a pair of disinterested guards waiting impatiently for shift change. Daud narrows his eyes, making another pass of the street, but nothing seems out of the ordinary so he turns again and continues on his way.

The feeling returns as soon as he starts walking.

Daud keeps his hands loose at his sides, careful to keep his growing anger from becoming obvious to whoever is observing him. He hasn’t felt like this outside of his dreams in years, but he trusts what his instincts are telling him. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end, his senses hyperaware of any nearby threat; for a moment, he wonders if it’s the Crown Killer—

But all of their victims have been killed under the cover of darkness, at night or in the early hours of the morning. And surely if the Crown Killer intended to confront him, they would have done so by now. They obviously have some awareness of his investigation.

He cuts down an alley, a shortcut that he used to take before one of the buildings along it was condemned following a particularly bad infestation of bloodflies. It’s been a bad season for the pests, and the exterminators haven’t gotten around to dealing with the building yet. Most people - aside from foolhardy kids who should but somehow don’t know better - avoid the building like the plague, crossing the street to go past it and bypassing the alley entirely.

Daud ducks around a corner, crouching behind an overflowing dumpster. The bloodflies nesting in a corpse a few feet away buzz warningly but don’t start to glow so Daud ignores them.

His pursuer isn’t a complete amateur; he doesn’t have the warning of a muttered curse or quickened footsteps, but they jog silently past his hiding spot a few seconds later all the same.

It’s a woman, dressed in dark clothes; for a second, he mistakes her for one of the followers of the _witch_ , though they should have scattered after Daud took care of their mistress—

She gasps as Daud wrenches her arm up behind her back, twisting half out of his grasp and striking with unerring aim at the vulnerable points of his body. Definitely not an amateur. Daud ignores the pain, but he can’t stop the reflexive loosening of his grip

The woman manages to slip away but she only settles into a wary stance and makes no further attempts to attack him. “Daud,” she says, and her voice is familiar enough that Daud doesn’t try to grab for her again. After a moment, he realizes that he does recognize her.

“Anna,” he says, gruff, reminded once again of putting Sylvio in a similar position, simply because he hadn’t recognized either of them. He thinks he’s changed, but has he really? He’s still attacking first and asking questions later, if at all, and hurting people he cared about as a result.

“Sorry about that,” Anna says, her posture relaxing into something more casual. “I wasn’t sure if it was you.”

“I didn’t recognize you immediately either.” As his actions only moments ago proved.

Anna smiles, a slight quirk of her lips. The past fourteen years seem to have treated her well: she’s aged, but there are no new scars that Daud can see, and she looks— healthy. Her clothes are plain but not too old. She was one of the last novices Daud had recruited before everything went to shit with Burrows and the Empress; he hadn’t even gotten around to sharing the arcane bond with her.

“Well, I’ve had worse during training,” she says mildly.

“You gave as good as you got,” Daud adds in a mutter, absently massaging his neck where she’d jabbed hard to make him release her. It’ll probably bruise.

Her gaze falls to his hand. “Your reflexes aren’t what they once were.”

“I don’t make a living with the edge of a blade any longer,” Daud says sharply.

Anna hesitates, then nods, a quick dip of her chin. “Of course.”

“What brings you to Karnaca?” Daud asks. She could still be in his former line of work, though she doesn’t have the look of a hardened killer— not that that’s a surefire indication to the contrary.

Anna shrugs. “Chasing down a lead. On the Crown Killer.”

Daud tenses. It’s incredibly tempting to tell her about his own investigation into the matter, but he didn’t know her well back in Dunwall - she’d seemed like a decent recruit, but Rulfio and some of the other master assassins had been the ones to handle the training of the novices - and he can’t forget what happened to Sylvio. Daud doesn’t want someone else getting hurt because he dragged them into this mess.

“Any luck?” He tries to keep his voice casual.

Anna searches his face, her expression opaque. As if she knows he’s hiding something. “Maybe. It’s too early to tell yet.”

“Well, I don’t get out much,” Daud says. “I’m busy with work and don’t have much time for anything else, but if there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know.”

Anna nods slowly. “Thank you, Daud.”

He glances past her, to what he can see of the harbour from the mouth of the alley. “I need to go before the ferry leaves, but we can meet at the bar by my apartment tonight if you’d like.”

“The bar,” Anna repeats blankly.

Daud nods and rattles off the address. “Alfonso, the bartender, is a friend of mine. Tell him you know me and he’ll give you free drinks while you wait.”

“Right. I— I’ll do that, Daud, thank you again.” She seems shaken, perhaps by his concern?

“Don’t mention it,” Daud says, and means it. Hatred, anger, apathy— he knows how to deal with those kinds of reactions. Gratitude, not so much. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” Anna agrees, stepping aside to let him past. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

“Hey, you ever—?”

Ironically, the whisper catches Daud’s attention more effectively than a calmly-voiced word would have.

The speaker, a regular guard, leans closer to his companion. The ferry isn’t as full as it usually is, allowing Daud to stretch out along a bench; tucked away in the corner as he is, the pair must not be able to see him. He looks away and closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep, on the off-chance they notice his presence.

“Ever what?” the other guard asks, not bothering to lower her voice.

The first guard shushes her. “Not so loud! But, you know, the Addermire posting? You ever seen— strange things?”

“Sick people do weird shit sometimes,” she says dismissively. “What, did something happen recently? It’s a little strange, considering Dr. Hypatia’s been cutting back the number of people she sees. I heard she’s not even taking appointments anymore.”

Daud frowns but doesn’t look over again, not wanting to alert them to his eavesdropping.

“Heard that too,” the first guard agrees. “But this guy didn’t look sick! Creepy, yeah, and there _was_ blood on his clothes but I don’t think it was his own!”

“You probably just imagined it.” The second guard sounds unimpressed. “I swear, that place makes everyone jumpy.”

“I didn’t imagine it!” The words are nearly a shout, causing the other people riding the ferry to look over. The guard shrinks away from their stares, his face sickly-pale. “I know what I saw,” he insists more quietly, but no less intensely. “I heard him too. Muttering about blood and bones. I swear I heard him say the name of that Tyvian High Judge that was just murdered.”

“Oh, you did? What was his name, again?”

“Kon— Kos—”

Kozlov. The Gazette just published the news a few days ago. Another Crown Killer slaying. Daud grits his teeth but resists the urge to go over and interrogate the guard.

“You can’t even remember the name?” His companion is obviously exasperated.

“It happened!” He keeps his voice down this time, though.

“All right, let’s say you really saw this guy,” his companion says, clearly humouring him. “Well, I assume he wasn’t a guard?” An affirmative grunt. “So if he wasn’t a guard and he wasn’t a patient, who, then? The caretaker? The nurse? Dr. Vasco?”

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t recognize his face— didn’t get a good look at it,” the hysterical guard mutters. “Shit! Do you really think I imagined it all?”

“A creepy, unknown man covered in blood, wandering the halls of one of the most heavily guarded places in Karnaca? Yeah, I’d say so.”

The guard exhales shakily. “All right. I guess you’ve got a point. It does sound pretty crazy when you put it like that.”

“Well, you’re stationed in the right place to get that treated,” the other guard deadpans, then gives in and starts laughing in earnest.

“Hey— shut up! Outsider’s eyes, I was really worried,” the guard protests, but he starts chuckling after a moment, obviously relieved.

Daud trails him to his apartment on the edge of the dockyards, overlooking the Seta canal, once the ferry lands. He wants to know more about the bloody man the guard had seen wandering the halls of Addermire.

* * *

The Crown Killer must be Vasco.

It sounds preposterous, but it can’t be the nurse, and the caretaker is an even less likely candidate.

Daud doesn’t want to believe it— how could a man dedicated to saving people take the lives of others so brutally? Vasco’s fame is second only to Hypatia’s in Serkonos. The good they’ve done in the past eight years— Does it mean nothing to Vasco? He killed _Sylvio_.

He’ll have to confront Vasco, try to figure out the man’s motives and allies. Perhaps, as he did with the witch, find some other method of dealing with the Crown Killer rather than resorting to the blade. Daud hasn’t killed since he murdered the Empress, but if he has to to eliminate this threat— He’ll do it.

He’d left his sword in Dunwall, laid at the memorial of the last Empress, but he kept a wristbow and a supply of ammunition for it tucked away in a locked trunk. A layer of dust has accumulated over everything despite the lock, but the mechanism of the bow still works and his aim, when he takes a few practice shots with the standard bolts, remains true. Perhaps not as precise as it was back in Dunwall, but it will be enough.

The wristbow feels strange against the skin of his forearm though, the weight of it unfamiliar to him now. Daud tugs his sleeve down over the weapon, checking that it isn’t visible. He’s as ready as he’s going to get. He still carries a knife after all these years, a comforting weight at the small of his back; he’s never had occasion to use it before today, and hopefully that won’t change.

The rail carriage trip to the Addermire Institute passes in a blink of an eye. With his face hidden behind the customary surgical mask, the guards patrolling the island don’t look twice as he walks past them.

There’s a strangely familiar atmosphere to the sanitarium. So many sick people have walked these halls that they’ve left an impression of themselves behind; the lingering stench of disease, an intangible layer of grime that won’t go away no matter how the staff scrubs at it.

Daud finds Vasco in his office in Disease Treatment, poring over something at his desk. He glances up when Daud closes the door, shutting out the rest of the laboratory.

“What—?” Vasco begins to ask, but Daud cuts him off.

“How could you?” he demands, all of his anger and grief coming back to the fore. His head _hurts_ from it all. He should be interrogating Vasco but— “You murdered all those people. You murdered _Sylvio_.”

Vasco rises, fear chasing away the confusion on his face as Daud advances on him. Good. He _should_ be frightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Daud snarls. The weight and shape of the knife’s hilt is familiar. Daud tightens his grip. He hasn’t taken a life in nearly fifteen years but this is _personal_.

“Look, put the knife down and— Wait, don’t— D—!”

The blade slips between Vasco’s ribs with ease, piercing his heart with brutal efficiency. Vasco gives a soft, pained gasp, the same sound Daud has heard time and time again, in his dreams and in the waking world. The light fades from Vasco’s eyes in a few moments.

It isn’t enough.

In the past, completing jobs had left Daud with the satisfaction of a competently executed plan. The Empress was an exception of course— But after Daud had dealt with the witch, protecting Emily Kaldwin from her mad schemes, that sense of accomplishment had been even more fulfilling. A sense of relief, that he was good for more than spilling blood.

Why is it different now? Daud just eliminated another threat to Emily, so why—

He shoves Vasco off his knife roughly. The doctor wasn’t working alone. Vasco had no motive, beyond the obviously sadistic pleasure he’d taken in the murders themselves. The victims’ connection probably meant nothing to him. There must be someone else behind him, ordering the killings.

Since the man himself was not forthcoming, Daud searches his office for anything that might incriminate Vasco’s accomplices. He finds nothing of use. The safe holds only notes and components from some experimental serum, but Daud couldn’t care less about that.

The last place he checks, the bottom cabinet of a display case tucked in the corner, yields a pair of thick gloves tucked beside some spare medical supplies. Daud glares at them; they’re out of place. Vasco’s space was organized meticulously before Daud turned it over looking for information, but the gloves don’t _belong_ —

Someone disturbs one of the glass phials in the laboratory outside, startling Daud; a muffled curse from the clumsy guard responsible for the commotion follows. Over the persistent ringing in his ears, Daud can hear their footsteps as they continue on their patrol, trading joking barbs with one of their fellows.

There’s nothing here. Daud closes the cabinet gently, though he’d like nothing more than to slam the door shut or rip it off completely; anything to channel this overwhelming frustration. Instead, he waits until the sounds of the guards fade and lets himself out, slipping out the same way he came in.

The death of the Crown Killer will surely set the mastermind intent on destabilizing Emily Kaldwin’s rule back. Draw them out into the open, so Daud can find and deal with them too. He just has to be patient.

(“Oh, Daud,” the dark-eyed creature haunting the Void purrs that night, “you always did enjoy poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You just can’t stand a mystery, can you?”)


	8. lift up my body and lose all control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit shorter than the others because... this story was not supposed to be this long, but inspiration for more scenes kept coming?? and I felt like tacking this part on to the last chapter would've made it too long, so you get a slightly shorter chapter here.
> 
> (when I started, this fic was only supposed to be like. 5k. but here we are...)
> 
> thanks to estora who helped me figure things out and provided invaluable suggestions. <3 and thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments on this fic! I really appreciate it <3 <3

CROWN KILLER SILENCES MORLEY COMMISSIONER, glares up accusingly from the day’s edition of the Silver Spike.

Daud stares at the headline in blank confusion, something like panic blooming in his chest. It sinks its roots into his lungs and strangles the breath from them, leaving him reeling.

It must be a mistake. From the delay in news between the Isles, surely. News travels slowly from one country to the others— But the Crown Killer murders are always reported as soon as the scandal-hungry papers catch wind of them. Maybe the body wasn’t found immediately—

Daud scans the article frantically, his head pounding. He has to read the first line several times before the meaning sinks in: the woman was murdered a week and a half ago, her body discovered in the early hours of the morning at her office. The blood was, apparently, still tacky.

It’s not a mistake.

Daud dealt with Vasco nearly a month ago, going by the date on the Silver Spike. He _killed_ Vasco a month ago, and the man was innocent. A doctor dedicated to _helping people_. What meaningful change has Daud ever brought to the world? He almost brought about the collapse of the Empire by killing its Empress; who knows what the consequences of murdering Vasco will be—?

Gradually, he becomes aware of a pain in his left hand. Blood oozes weakly from his torn knuckles when he looks down, dripping onto the newspaper clutched in his fist. It’s smeared on the wall next to him. The pain throbs in time with the aching in his temples. He takes a breath, and another. Unclenches his fist.

Unheeded, the paper flutters to the ground, falling open on an article about the rise in blood infestations around the city.

This explains why Daud hasn’t managed to turn up any more leads. The Crown Killer’s conspirators aren’t worried because Daud killed an innocent man, not the serial murderer.

He still has a gut feeling the Crown Killer is based in Serkonos. The first murders took place in Karnaca, after all; but there’s something more than that. Daud’s certain the Crown Killer must operate out of his homeland, if not Karnaca itself. But without even a sighting of the murderer—

It doesn’t matter. Daud can’t turn back now. He has to find the true Crown Killer. If he doesn’t, Vasco’s murder will have been in vain. He owes the man that much, at least.

* * *

Daud throws his knife into the bay, along with the collection of crossbow bolts and grenades and other lethal weapons that he’s brought with him since he returned to Serkonos. He keeps the wristbow and the sleep darts and the stun mines; he’s not going to kill another innocent person, but he isn’t going to stop investigating the Crown Killer either.

Daud turns away from the water. The street is essentially deserted in the early morning light. The ferry isn’t due for another hour at least, and only a handful of workers wander up and down the docks. A single guard slouches against a barrel, giving the appearance of watching over the area. The soft snores Daud can hear ruin the image, but it’s not as if he had a high opinion of the Grand Guard in the first place.

He should go back to his apartment and get ready for work, but demand for the services they provide has been down recently. Even if he goes in, there probably won’t be much for him to do. In contrast, uncovering the Crown Killer’s identity is all the more pressing now. The bodies are only piling up higher, despite Daud’s efforts; splitting his attention in two directions obviously isn’t working, and Sylvio and the other victims of the Crown Killer - and Vasco, the poor man - paid the price.

He misses the Whalers at times like this.

No, that’s a lie. He feels their absence always; it’s just that some days are worse than others. But it’s for the best that they aren’t here, that Hobson has apparently kept his location a secret. Or perhaps the makeshift physician hadn’t, and those former Whalers that he’d told simply had no interest in seeing Daud again.

Either alternative is welcome, though the latter makes the ache in his chest throb all the more fiercely. But it’s for the best. Sylvio’s involvement with him only led to the young man’s gruesome murder. Who knows what he might have accomplished if Daud hadn’t stumbled onto the first ship out of Dunwall? And before that, the investigation into the witch led Lurk astray and brought the Overseers down on their base in the Flooded District.

The end result is always death and misery. That’s all Daud’s good for, but the men and women that served him deserve better.

* * *

Daud can’t even find the guard who’d pointed him in Vasco’s direction in the first place. The guards stationed at Addermire act cagey when he questions them, avoiding his eyes and making excuses to leave; when he does manage to corner them, they deny any knowledge of strange happenings at the Institute. None of those he interrogates seem to know the original guard Daud’s asking about. Or if they do, they pretend not to; without the original guard’s name, or any sort of proper description, it’s equal odds whether they’re lying or they genuinely don’t know.

All of them give him variations on the same answer: the frequent reassignments mean they aren’t even familiar with the other people in their squad, much less all of the guards stationed at Addermire; or they’re new themselves, and have only just come to Addermire recently; and none of them have noticed anything strange, or heard any of their fellows discussing the same.

Dead end after dead end. Daud searches Addermire’s halls, but he doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary either. The staff tells him much the same things as the guards, but they seem more fearful where the guards had merely been surly and uneasy. Pushing them gets him nowhere, however, and Daud finally leaves in disgust.

* * *

Daud wakes with the taste of blood in his mouth, but it’s so commonplace now that he barely notices. The phantom taste will fade soon enough.

His journal sits on the nightstand, open to the latest entry. Daud rubs a hand over his face and picks it up, his eyes catching on the uncharacteristically large letters filling the page: ALEXANDRIA HYPATIA IS THE CROWN KILLER.

He stares at the words for several seconds, uncomprehending. He can’t remember what he was investigating last night; long days and longer nights, broken up by nightmares that leave him more exhausted than he was the day before, have wreaked havoc on his memory.

Surely he’d remember something like this. Hypatia wasn’t even a suspect. But the words continue to stare up at him, unavoidable. The writing is his own, though he doesn’t usually resort to large, block letters. He grinds the heel of his palm against his forehead, as if the sensation of pressure bordering on pain can drown out the very real pain throbbing between his temples.

But the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Hypatia doesn’t just work at Addermire, she _runs_ the place; she practically lives there now. The guards and other staff must be in on the whole thing; it would explain their reticence when he tried to question them. The first guard that had seen the bloodied Crown Killer wandering Addermire’s halls must have mistaken her for a man.

Still, it was difficult to imagine that the alchemist behind the Addermire Solution and a number of other effective, if not so famous, cures, and a staunch advocate for the rights of the poor, could be a murderer who killed their victims in such brutal ways as the Crown Killer. Hypatia is the only person Daud would have suspected less of being the Crown Killer than Vasco himself.

Daud slumps back against the pillow with a groan, tossing the journal aside. For all the time he’s put into investigating the Crown Killer, he’s still no closer to uncovering their identity than he was when he’d started. They might as well be Alexandria Hypatia, for all that he knows about them. All of his leads have brought him to dead ends, or disappeared without a trace.

He presses the heels of palms against his eyes until light seems to burst behind his eyelids.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up again. Enough feeling sorry for himself; he’s spent long enough doing that since the deaths of Sylvio and then Vasco. He leans over to pick up his journal, cursing more loudly and for longer as several of the pages fall out of the binding. The journal’s been with him since Dunwall, before he murdered the Empress; it’s water-stained and dog-eared and the spine is cracked in no less than three places. So it’s no surprise that this latest abuse, rudely tossing it to the floor, was enough to knock some of the pages loose.

He sets the book carefully on the nightstand and kneels on the floor to collect the other sheets. As he strains to reach the last page, his fingertips just brushing the edge - it managed to fall under his bed, of course - he notices something different about it. When he pulls it out from the far corner, he realizes it’s actually an envelope, addressed to him in a familiar hand. Dusty, from some time spent lost beneath his bed, but the seal has already been broken.

Daud has no memory of receiving this letter, nor of reading it. Why would Alfonso have sent him one when he could just catch Daud on the stairs on his way in or out of the tenement building? Frowning, he pulls the note out.

 _Daud_ , Alfonso begins,

_I’m real sorry about the kid. I know it’s been hard on you… You’ve been acting a bit strangely lately. I’d ask you to come by the bar, but one of the other residents got badly stung the other day and has holed up in the room._

_My door’s always open if you want to talk, or if you just want a drink._

_Your friend,  
Alfonso_

It had been several months since Daud had found Sylvio dead, though he remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He’d broken Alfonso’s nose, though his friend hadn’t held it against him. Daud can’t remember if he actually apologized for it or not; if he’d even exchanged more than a handful of words with Alfonso since then.

He drops the letter into his lap, leaning his head back against the cot. His body’s already protesting sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the thin cot and the hard bed frame, but Daud ignores its complaints. At his age, with the rough life he’s lived, he’s more than accustomed to a bit of pain.

Daud should stop by Alfonso’s apartment; he doesn’t feel up to visiting the bar, but it’s been too long since he interacted with another person beyond the scope of his work or his investigation. He doesn’t know what in the Void he’ll _say_ , but Alfonso has a way of listening that draws Daud’s troubles out of him; and if nothing else, Alfonso did promise him a drink.

But there are more pressing matters to attend to first. Daud casts a glance at his journal, and the loose pages stacked on top. Even if he no longer possesses the conviction that led him to claim Hypatia was the Crown Killer the night before, it’s somewhere to start, at least. He’ll go to Addermire again and question the good doctor; she’s the one person he’s overlooked, in any case. As the head of Addermire, she might be able to point him in the right direction, at the very least.

Daud stands, resolved. He’ll go speak with Hypatia; if, somehow, she actually _is_ the Crown Killer, he’ll deal with her, and if not, hopefully she’ll give him some new information or evidence to work from. And when he’s done at Addermire, he’ll pay Alfonso a long overdue visit.

* * *

The Institute for Infectious Diseases is as bleak and unsettling as it has ever been. Daud hardly notices the stench of disease and death that permeates the sanitarium. It reminds him of Dunwall, and the seemingly endless years of the rat plague; a homecoming, in some twisted way, infinitely more unpleasant than arriving in Karnaca proper had felt eight years ago.

Addermire’s halls are as familiar to him as the back of his hand; he’s been through them often enough. It doesn’t take him long to locate Hypatia in the laboratory off of the recuperation area. She’s bent over the counter, fiddling with some equipment set up on the surface, too engrossed in her work to notice his arrival.

“Dr. Hypatia,” Daud says, stopping beyond arm’s reach.

Hypatia tenses but doesn’t otherwise betray any surprise as she turns to face him. “Daud. I was wondering if you’d come back here again.”

“I’m here about the Crown Killer.”

Hypatia stares at him, her eyes entirely too _knowing_ , as if she can see inside Daud’s head and discern his motives and intentions without feeling the need to question him. “What about him?” she asks at length.

“‘Him’?” Daud echoes, latching onto the pronoun. “Do you know their identity?”

Another long stare; it takes an effort not to cross the distance between them and shake Hypatia by the shoulders as he demands answers. Finally, she speaks: “Why do you ask?”

She’s behaving strangely, her voice lacking its characteristic warmth. Her usual openness has been replaced by a reserve that Daud isn’t entirely certain how to penetrate. She was close with Vasco, so perhaps she still grieves his death; or perhaps she _is_ the Crown Killer.

“Because I want to find the Crown Killer. I’m going to stop them.”

That garners no visible reaction. Hypatia continues to watch him impassively.

Daud’s impatience is quickly siphoning into anger. He switches tacks. “And I think that you’re the Crown Killer,” he adds, agitation dropping his voice into something closer to a growl. The accusation isn’t completely true, but it does finally earn him a response.

“Oh,” Hypatia whispers, a pained expression crossing her face. She curls in on herself, her arms tucked around her middle.

Daud shoots her with a sleep dart instinctively, but she abruptly straightens rather than crumpling to the floor as she should. She brushes the dart away, the tinkle of the glass as it shatters on the floor a distant sound; in the same motion, she rakes her hair back from her face, leaving it sticking up at angles from her head.

He nearly recoils when he sees her face. Something has— shifted. The look in her eyes is feral, her face nearly unrecognizable. Reddened lips curl back from bared teeth in a sneer; if the sleep dart affected her at all, she gives no indication of it, stepping towards him with the slow, inexorable stalk of a predator.

She’s still Alexandria Hypatia, and yet the woman before him is nothing like her. Her face, her bearing, her gait— they are at complete odds with the gentle demeanour of Addermire’s Chief Alchemist. This isn’t Alexandria Hypatia any longer; it’s the Crown Killer.

How long has this brutal murderer lurked beneath Hypatia’s skin?

“Oh no,” Hypatia— the _Crown Killer_ drawls, “I’ve been found out. However did you uncover my identity? Did it come to you in a _dream_?”

“I’ll ask the questions here,” Daud snarls, edging back to keep the examination table between them. The Crown Killer is a dangerous foe, capable of murdering her victims with her bare hands; Daud keeps his eyes on her the entire time, trying to decide how he’ll deal with her.

The Crown Killer laughs harshly. “So defensive! It must have been a nightmare, then, you poor thing. You look exhausted. Does all that blood on your hands keep you up at night?”

“Does the memory of your victims keep _you_ awake?” Daud bites back the rest of his retort, taking a slow breath to try and calm his rising fury; his temples are already throbbing, and he needs all his wits about him. For all the Crown Killer’s savagery, she must have some of Hypatia’s intellect, and an animal cunning as well; unless those pulling her strings have been arranging things.

“ _My_ victims—?” The Crown Killer dissolves into cackles, bracing a hand against the nearby counter to keep herself upright. Daud shoots her with two more sleep darts, which have the same effect as the first: none at all. She doesn’t even bother to brush the empty darts aside this time. “You are so entertaining when you’re let off the leash, snapping at shadows! Shall I put you out of your misery?”

“Just try it,” Daud grits out. He doesn’t want to kill her, but that doesn’t mean he _won’t_. Unlike Vasco, Daud knows that the person before him is the Crown Killer.

“Have it all figured out, do you? _Daud_.” His name sounds strange in the Crown Killer’s mouth.

Daud’s head throbs, but he pushes past the pain. He can’t afford to make the same mistakes. “Who are you working with?” he demands roughly.

A feral grin crosses the Crown Killer’s face. “Not gentle, dull Vasco any longer, thanks to you. How easily the bloody butcher slipped back into his old skin.” She laughs again, the jagged sound grating at Daud’s ears.

His fingers long for the hilt of his blade, but he threw it away. “ _Who_ ,” he snarls again.

“I wouldn’t worry myself about that,” the Crown Killer says, going from ragged laughter to deadly, menacing calm in a heartbeat. “I’ll deal with _her_ as soon as I’m done ripping out your limp spine, Mr. Knife.”

Hearing Sylvio’s nickname for him thrown in his face like a weapon, something in him— snaps.

Daud comes back to himself with his hands wrapped around the Crown Killer’s throat. She claws at him desperately, gasping for breath. Her body convulses against the floor, heels drumming hard against the tile. Daud can see, dimly, the bloody furrows that she ripped into his arms, but he doesn’t feel any pain. He can hardly feel anything, just an all-encompassing _rage_.

Eventually, she goes still. Daud keeps squeezing, imagines lifting her corpse and jarring it back down until her skull shatters, or snapping her neck between his hands—

Daud releases her and staggers to his feet. His whole head hurts, a crippling pain in his temples and behind his eyes that nearly overwhelms the lesser sensation on his face. When he brings a hand up to his cheek, he finds the mask gone; his fingers come away bloody from where she’d clawed him. His mouth tastes like copper.

The guards assigned to Addermire avoid the laboratory, but eventually Hypatia’s absence will be noticed; he needs to be long gone by then.

The Crown Killer’s body is still, limbs splayed wide in death. No different than any other corpse he’s left behind him, but this time—

This time, he knows that killing her was the right thing to do.

Daud draws in a ragged breath, then another. Turns away. He sets one foot ahead of the other and walks away, leaving the Crown Killer dead on the floor.


	9. I'll be the blood // homecoming, redux [Corvo]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for: character death, canon-typical violence
> 
> I also meant to bump the rating last chapter but forgot rip so I bumped it this time :')

The Addermire Institute of Infectious Diseases is eerily quiet. Despite the sun beating down, the air feels chill, cutting through the layers of Corvo’s coat as he gets out of the rail carriage. From the city proper, Addermire looked grand, another jewel set in the crown of Karnaca; up close, its dilapidation is obvious. He steps around the garbage and forgotten luggage littering the abandoned station and heads for the building.

The guards patrolling the place are obviously on edge, their eyes scanning the dark corners warily as they walk the otherwise deserted corridors. Their footsteps echo off the tile, covering any sound Corvo might make as he stalks them. There are more than enough dark corners to stash their unconscious forms, but he miscalculates when he reaches the dining hall. A servant working in the kitchen spots him taking out the last of the guards on their meal break and starts to shout in alarm.

Corvo curses and blinks towards the kitchen, but there’s a thick pane of glass between them and the servant is closer to the back door and the guards patrolling the exterior—

The servant’s cries cut off abruptly. When Corvo enters the kitchen, he sees a woman standing over the unconscious forms of the kitchen staff.

“I’d wondered when you would make your way here, Lord Protector,” Alexandria Hypatia says.

* * *

With Hypatia’s help, Corvo makes his way through Addermire’s halls with ease. The guards are obviously accustomed to her presence - which makes sense, given that their purpose here seems to be keeping her confined to the island - and trust her enough to become distracted and allow Corvo to choke them out without dipping any further into his dwindling supply of sleep darts.

“Do you know who the Crown Killer is?” Corvo asks in the disease treatment laboratory as they collect materials that Hypatia claimed they would need.

Hypatia pauses, a large syringe in hand, and gives him a measured look.

“Mea— My associate thought it might be one of your patients.” Corvo glances around the dusty lab, evidence that Addermire hasn’t fulfilled its function for months at least. “But that can’t be right.”

“The Crown Killer is not one of my former patients,” Hypatia says hoarsely. “But you knew him once.”

Corvo frowns behind his mask, even as the dread he’s been feeling ever since he set foot on the island intensifies. “Who—”

“I can’t talk about it,” Hypatia says, and Corvo doesn’t think she’s referring to the fading hand prints bruised around her throat. “But I can show you.”

“Tell me,” Corvo insists.

“We’ll need blood from a bloodfly-riddled corpse,” Hypatia says, shoving the syringe into his hands. “There’s one in V— in that office.”

Corvo takes it with ill-grace, stalking past her towards the office. Apparently it belongs to someone named Bartholomeus Vasco. He doesn’t recognize the name. He doesn’t think he can trust Hypatia - she’s obviously holding something back - but she’s helping him, and she knows the identity of the Crown Killer, so he’ll cooperate with her for now.

But he doesn’t forget that she was strong enough to knock out the servant who’d spotted him in a few seconds, so he keeps half an eye on her as he draws the supposedly-essential blood from the corpse in Vasco’s office.

* * *

They find the spy skulking around the third floor, rifling through the desks in the administrative office outside the recuperation area. He’s good; the rest of the area looks undisturbed, and he’s going through the documents at the matron’s desk with practiced ease.

He freezes when he spots them at the top of the stairs leading from the floor below, eyes widening in recognition.

“Wait—!” He throws up his hands when Corvo lifts his crossbow. There’s a sword at his hip, but he makes no move to draw it. “Lord Protector, please.”

Corvo frowns. That’s twice now he’s been recognized with the mask on. “Who are you?” he asks, keeping his weapon trained on the other man, who doesn’t look familiar to him at all. His pale skin suggests he’s not a native of Serkonos, but his unremarkable brown hair and eyes do little to narrow his nationality down further. His face is as plain as the rest of his appearance; someone so average that the eye just skips over him and remembers little, if anything, about him.

Corvo wonders if that’s a deliberately cultivated impression, or if the man comes by it naturally.

“I’m Thomas,” the man says. When that doesn’t garner any recognition, he adds, “A— former Whaler.”

That explains how he knew who Corvo was. He’d never been seen carrying out his missions fifteen years ago, and the only people besides the treacherous Loyalists who knew he was the one behind Piero’s eerie death mask were Daud and his men.

“Is Daud involved in this?” Corvo demands.

Hypatia shifts beside him, but her face is devoid of any prominent emotion when he glances over; her expression is as unreadable as the skull he wears over his face.

“No. Maybe.” Thomas winces, as if he can sense Corvo’s rising ire. “I don’t know. He was looking into the Crown Killer but he would _never_ help Delilah.”

Corvo hooks his crossbow back to his belt; if Thomas tries something, Corvo has the advantage of the Outsider’s mark. He no longer has the array of powers he once had, but there seem to be _more_ runes in Karnaca than there were in Dunwall. He’ll have amassed enough to regain his former abilities soon enough. “You sound certain of that.”

“I am.” Thomas seems in earnest, but Corvo knows firsthand that there are plenty of skilled liars in the world. “Daud _stopped_ Delilah from possessing Lady Emily fifteen years ago.”

“He what,” Corvo says blankly.

* * *

Corvo listens in disbelief as Thomas outlines the feud between Daud and Delilah that supposedly emerged while Corvo was dismantling Burrows’ regime. According to the former Whaler, Daud had dealt with Delilah by replacing the portrait she’d intended to use to possess Emily with a painting of the Void.

It fit with what the Outsider had told him, when he’d dragged Corvo into the Void after Delilah stole the mark from him. “Fifteen years ago, the assassin Daud could have warned you about Delilah if you'd bothered to ask,” the Outsider had claimed, or something to that effect; Corvo hadn’t been listening as attentively as he perhaps should have. Too angry about Delilah’s coup, and fixated on the thought that _the Outsider_ could surely have warned Corvo just as easily, an impression reinforced by the knowledge that he’d deigned to give Daud her name fifteen years ago.

“And sealing her into a painting of _the Void_ seemed like a good idea?” Corvo couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice if he tried, not that he bothers to make the effort now.

“She was gone,” Thomas insists. “I don’t know how she came back, but—”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Corvo snaps. “I ran her through and she pulled my blade back out like it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience! Whatever Daud did just made her more powerful. She took—” He stops himself, clenching his left hand into a fist as he remembers Hypatia’s presence, quiet as she is. He hasn’t had to use the mark in front of her yet, and he doesn’t intend to if he can avoid it.

Thomas is frowning, his eyes on Corvo’s hand. “That doesn’t make sense,” he says, shaking his head. “She had the Outsider’s mark, it was what allowed her to possess people with her paintings, but she couldn’t influence others bearing the mark.”

“That’s obviously changed.” Hypatia’s voice is flat.

Thomas glances at her. “I read Daud’s journal. He thought Vasco was the Crown Killer, and then he thought it was _you_.”

“He was wrong on both counts.” If she’s at all affected by the accusation, she doesn’t show it.

“Who,” Corvo snarls, tired of wasting his time with one of Daud’s assassins and Hypatia’s cryptic remarks, “is the real Crown Killer?”

“Daud,” Hypatia says.

Thomas makes a choked noise of denial. “That’s impossible!”

Absurdly, Corvo feels betrayed, which makes no sense. It’s not as if he _trusted_ the man who murdered Jessamine and countless others besides. But he had, in some way, trusted the assassin’s intentions; his regret had seemed genuine. “His hands do violence,” Jessamine’s voice had whispered when Corvo pointed her heart at Daud, “but there is a different dream in his heart.”

“She must be lying,” Thomas is saying urgently. “Daud wouldn’t— He didn’t take a life after the Empress. And he would never have killed anyone as brutally as the Crown Killer does.”

“He killed Vasco,” Hypatia counters. “You can’t deny that.”

Thomas flinches and falls silent.

“Do you have proof?” Corvo asks, turning away from the other man’s troubled expression to regard Hypatia.

She nods and pulls a key out of her pocket, which she uses to unlock the door to the recuperation area. Then she steps back, one hand extended in clear invitation for Corvo to go first.

“What’s in there?”

“A number of bloodfly nests. The insects ignore me; it’s a side effect of the serum I was trying to develop with Vasco and Daud. The other side effects were— not so beneficial.” Hypatia frowns briefly. “They keep the Grand Guard out, but you’ll have to get rid of them if you want to reach the recuperation area. The proof is all there.”

“Or it could be a trap,” Thomas says, but he doesn’t seem convinced of that fact himself.

Hypatia frowns again. “I could go retrieve it myself, if you prefer, but it will likely take even longer.”

Corvo checks his stock of incendiary bolts; too few for his liking, but he can always resort to his pistol to dispose of the nests if he has to. “We’ll all go together,” he says, motioning for Thomas to join them.

* * *

Hypatia wasn’t lying about the infestation. The ward is almost as bad as the condemned apartment building he’d snuck through back at the docks. Even with the handful of scattered incendiary bolts left by some unfortunate would-be exterminator and a couple of bottles of Orbon rum, Corvo has to use his pistol to take out the last of them.

The recuperation area itself is thankfully free of bloodflies, aside from a few corpses pinned beneath a magnifying glasses for further study. Hypatia leads them down into the lab, clearly unconcerned to have them at her back. Corvo and Thomas trade wary looks as she walks ahead of them; Corvo is hardly so comfortable, and it’s obvious Thomas feels the same.

“What are you doing?” Corvo demands sharply as Hypatia makes for the equipment set up on the counter.

“Finishing the counter-serum,” Hypatia says, spreading out the ingredients that she and Corvo had collected. “It mitigates the more deleterious effects of the serum I mentioned earlier.”

“What effects?” Thomas’ tone is more even than Corvo’s had been, though no less suspicious.

“In Daud, it manifested as lowered inhibitions, increased suggestibility and delusion. I developed a split personality from its use, though the counter-serum has been effective at suppressing it thus far,” Hypatia explains calmly as she prepares the counter-serum.

Corvo stares.

Hypatia turns back, the large metal syringe from before held in her hands. “Whether you choose to use it on Daud is up to you, naturally.”

“You’ve been experimenting on him!” Thomas accuses.

“Daud, B— Vasco and I decided to test the serum on ourselves of our volition,” Hypatia says.

“This is ridiculous,” Thomas says. “You said you had _proof_. For all we know, that could be poison.”

Corvo takes the counter-serum, tucking it into his pocket. Even if it is poison, it could be useful later. “You did say you had proof, Dr. Hypatia.”

She inclines her head and leads them further into the lab, entering a small office tucked in the corner.

“No,” Thomas breathes, halting just outside the doorway. Corvo stops as well, to avoid a collision.

A large painting takes up most of one wall, a vibrant, abstract portrayal of an older but still recognizable Daud. Red dominates the canvas, shaded mainly with tones of orange and yellow, bringing to mind a well-stoked fire. The warm shades are broken up most prominently by the exaggerated depiction of Daud’s distinctive scar: it looks more like a fracture in his skin, a dark blue-black fault line bisecting the right side of his face. The other side of his face is covered by his bare, unmarked left hand, fingers curled like claws, as if Daud is mere seconds away from gouging out his own eye. The other grey eye seems to glint silver in the light, almost lifelike, boring into Corvo with an unnerving, feral intensity. That impression is only reinforced by the curve of his mouth, a vicious snarl that reveals red-shaded teeth.

Classical portraiture, as it was perfected by Sokolov, is going out of style. This piece would probably be worth as much as one of his better-known works, especially if it really is painted by Emily’s usurper. The Duke of Serkonos might have been the first noble to flock to Delilah’s banner, but he won’t be the last; people like him would pay a premium just for the novelty of owning something created by Delilah’s hand.

But as Corvo stares up at Daud’s face, he doesn’t feel the slightest urge to strip canvas from frame to hawk it at the nearest black market.

“Delilah painted a portrait of him back in Dunwall, this— doesn’t mean anything,” Thomas says weakly.

Hypatia doesn’t reply, rummaging through the cluttered desk below the portrait. She produces a recording card and sticks it in the audiograph machine.

Corvo stiffens as Daud’s voice, that graveled tone that confessed his regret to an earlier model in a similarly ruined building in the Flooded District, issues from the speakers.

“ _She_ says they must be killed,” Daud rasps. There’s a strange note in his voice, difficult to identify through the audiograph. “That they are enemies of the Empress. The influential and the wealthy, mostly. Nobles. Blue bloods.” Daud’s laugh filters out of the machine, distorted, verging on hysteria. “Their blood is no different from the lowest born urchin’s. Their bones snap just the same. Such satisfying sounds. The cracks, and the screams. I shouldn’t enjoy it. I never allowed myself to enjoy it before but I can’t help myself—”

The silence is deafening, broken only by the soft sounds of the internal machinery working; there must still be more recorded on the card. Corvo can see Thomas shaking his head beside him, as if he can deny the confession, deny the savage _glee_ in Daud’s voice.

The Crown Killer’s voice starts again a few moments later, closer to the tone of regret that Corvo remembers from fifteen years past. “They deserve it. I killed an Empress once, and I saved an Empress, too. I’m helping the Empress by killing those who oppose her. I’m _helping_ —!”

The audiograph ends, the card ejecting with a click. Hypatia removes it and drops it back on the mess covering the desk before turning to Corvo.

“Delilah’s manipulating him somehow,” Thomas says, doing the same. The expression on his face is one of anguish. His hands rise, as if he means to take Corvo by the arms before he thinks better of it. “He— he was trying to find out who the Crown Killer was. He doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Then his eyes slide past Corvo, widening in surprise.

Corvo turns, drawing his folding blade in the same motion.

Daud stands in the centre of the laboratory, clad in a plain, faded shirt and serviceable trousers. His hands are bare where they hang at his sides. Corvo doesn’t see any weapons on him, and his posture is loose, but that doesn’t mean he’s harmless.

The Knife of Dunwall— _the Crown Killer_ — doesn’t need a blade or a pistol to carry out his killings. Most of the Crown Killer’s victims were torn apart; the crime scenes, reported in such loving detail by the rabid press looking to destabilize Emily’s rule, resembled animal attacks more than anything. If not for the ominous messages left in the victims’ blood, they might have been taken for such.

“Corvo?” He sounds surprised. “What are you doing here?” He steps closer, but stops when Corvo raises his sword in warning, a furrow appearing between his brows. “Thomas? Is that you?”

Thomas stands frozen when Corvo glances back at him, a sick expression on his pale face.

“I heard you mention the Crown Killer,” Daud says. “But you don’t need to worry. I took care of them already, about a month past.”

“ _Void_ ,” Thomas chokes out, his voice shaking. “Daud—”

“What’s wrong?” Daud asks, his voice thick with concern. His eyes flick from Thomas to Corvo; tucked away in the office, Hypatia is out of sight. “Did something happen with the Empress? Why _are_ you here, Corvo?”

“The Crown Killer murdered another victim just over two weeks ago,” Corvo says. His voice is perfectly level, a stark contrast to the anger coiling in his chest.

Daud stiffens. “What?”

“Ichabod Boyle was murdered at his offices outside Dunwall Tower—”

“No, that’s—” Daud presses the heel of his left hand to his forehead, his face a grimace of pain. The back of his hand is a stretch of unblemished skin, just as it was in Delilah’s portrait.

“—two days before the anniversary of Jessamine’s _murder_!” Corvo’s shouting by the end, the last word echoing around the open space.

“That’s impossible!” Daud snarls back, shaking his head as if he can refute Corvo’s words as simply as that.

“It isn’t,” Hypatia says, walking into view. She has a folded newspaper in her hand. CROWN KILLER RAMPAGE CONTINUES, proclaims the headline, below the date. It was published only a few days ago.

“You—” Daud flinches, staring at her as if he’s seeing a ghost. “How—”

“If you intend to use the counter-serum, I would suggest administering it now,” Hypatia tells Corvo. “He was resistant to courses of action that were too uncharacteristic in the beginning, but Delilah had my alter-ego perfect the serum to the point that he would comply with basically everything she ordered.”

“What are you talking about,” Daud grits out. “Did you keep experimenting with the serum after Bartholomeus burned the notes?”

Corvo’s free hand strays to his pocket, and the syringe tucked within. Daud’s attention seems largely taken by Hypatia. It would be a simple thing to blink into Daud’s space and inject the counter-serum, especially since Daud no longer has the Outsider’s mark.

“—you must have killed Boyle,” Daud’s snapping at Hypatia. “If you’ve been alive this whole time—”

“Daud,” Thomas says, his voice bleak with despair. “Daud, please, calm down.”

“You don’t _believe_ this, do you?” Daud demands, rounding on him.

“Let’s all just— stay calm and, and we can figure this out, all right?”

“I—” Daud shudders, hunching over, hands pressed against his head. When he straightens, it’s as if he’s a completely different person. He holds himself like a fighter— like a _killer_ — and all traces of pain are gone from his face. His eyes seem to gleam with the same feral light of Delilah’s caricature as he turns to Corvo. “I did it for the Empress.”

Corvo already spared Daud once. He’d trusted that the assassin’s regret would lead to Daud reforming himself or taking his own life, as he’d trusted the Loyalists’ sincerity in putting Emily on the throne as their ruler, as he’d trusted Ramsey’s loyalty in keeping her there.

“Daud,” Thomas says again, like it’s the only word he knows.

“It was only highborn filth like the Regenters, people who wanted to do to the Empress what Burrows did to her mother!” Daud snarls.

Corvo had spared Daud once, but he won’t make the same mistake again.

“Don’t!” Thomas cries as Corvo’s left hand drops to his side, and he raises his blade. Thomas grabs for Corvo’s arm, his fingers scrabbling at the fabric of Corvo’s sleeve. “He didn’t _know_ —”

Hypatia pulls him away, holding him back despite his increasingly desperate struggles and shouts.

“Thom—?” Daud’s shoulders slouch again as he blinks rapidly, like a sleeper woken from a deep dream. His expression quickly shifts from confusion to fear. He doesn’t even look at Corvo as he starts toward the pair. “Alex— Hypatia, don’t hurt him! Haven’t you done eno—?”

The blade slides between Daud’s ribs with minimal resistance, as it had with Delilah, and then Alexi at Ramsey’s hands, and then Ramsey after Corvo took it from Alexi’s cold fingers.

Daud gasps, a faint, pained sound; Corvo almost doesn’t hear it over Thomas’ frantic cries. His hands grasp Corvo’s forearm in a crushing grip that swiftly slackens as the light fades from his eyes and his body goes limp.

Corvo shoves him off the blade, and cuts off his head for good measure. Even if Daud no longer has the mark, Corvo won’t take any chances.

Delilah came back. He won’t have Daud do the same.

Thomas sags in Hypatia’s grasp, his face blank with shock as he stares at the corpse behind Corvo. He slumps to his knees when Hypatia releases him, barely getting a hand out in time to stop from falling flat on his face.

Corvo cleans his blade carefully. He doesn’t want the mechanisms to rust; Piero isn’t around to maintain it anymore. When he’s done that, he pulls out the heart. It pulses weakly in his hand. The leathery feeling of the desiccated flesh would be repulsive, but for the fragment of spirit that gives the clockwork within it a voice.

“Daud. Assassin. Nurse. He helped save countless lives at Addermire,” Jessamine whispers in his mind. “It wasn’t enough.” When he tightens his grip, she adds, “Am I meant to forgive this man for what he did?"

Corvo exhales, not quite a sigh, and tucks the heart away again, then turns to Hypatia. He still has his blade out, though it’s folded up for the moment. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about Delilah, starting with your involvement in all of this.”

Hypatia drags her eyes away from the bloody mess. Her face is inscrutable again. If she approves of his actions or not, Corvo can’t tell; either way, he doesn’t particularly care. After a moment, she inclines her head, and tells him.

* * *

“I suppose you had no other choice,” the Outsider says, his voice distinctly cooler than Corvo can ever remember hearing, at the next shrine he finds.

Corvo glares up at the god; the Outsider has not granted him the capacity to reply this time. Corvo _could_ have used Hypatia’s counter-serum on Daud, had considered doing so for several long seconds, but there was no guarantee that it would work. Mercy, or the crueler fates that Corvo inflicted on his enemies under its guise, didn’t work. Delilah’s return from the Void after Daud had supposedly dealt with her was proof of that.

The only way Corvo could be certain that his and Emily’s enemies would not come back again was to ensure they were cold and _dead_.

“Delilah’s spirit would have passed through the Void upon her death as well,” the Outsider says. “Who can say what would have become of her then? Some spirits linger in the Void far beyond their time before they pass on.”

The Outsider should have warned the bastard of Delilah’s machinations, if cared so much about Daud’s fate. He certainly didn’t have a problem doing so back in Dunwall, after Daud had murdered Jessamine. Assuming Thomas had told Corvo the truth about what had happened between the assassin and the witch.

“It isn’t so simple.” The Outsider’s voice is soft, the first time it’s been anything other than cold or judgmental throughout the entire conversation. His tone is coloured with some emotion Corvo can’t immediately identify— regret, perhaps? “I was unaware of Delilah’s survival. By the time I realized what was happening, she had already sunk her thorns into Daud and I could not reach him.”

The Outsider falls silent, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyes are as dark and unfathomable as ever, but he isn’t even looking at Corvo; he seems focused on some middle distance over Corvo’s shoulder.

If the Outsider regrets Daud’s fate so much, he should probably just find the bastard’s spirit as it passes through the Void and apologize to him personally instead of wasting Corvo’s time.

Blue-tinged lips peel back from impossibly sharp teeth, betraying the Outsider’s otherworldly nature as he sneers at Corvo. “Perhaps I shall. You went to such lengths to ensure Daud wouldn’t return, it would be a shame for your efforts to go to waste.”

Corvo staggers back a step as awareness of the waking world returns. The runes in his hand are silent; faintly, he can hear the buzzing of bloodflies. The apartments below this one are infested; the whole city is infested, with bloodflies and the Duke’s cronies and witches.

There will always be more bloodflies, but Corvo can and will do something about the others.

* * *

Delilah draws him into the Void the night after he kills Jindosh and rescues Sokolov to spin him some sob story about her childhood. As if she has the monopoly on tragedy, as if her hard life justifies the lives she’s taken and the people she’s trampled on her way to steal the throne from Emily.

“Is this how you got to Daud?” Corvo asks after the third scene. He’s curious, in a detached way; he doesn’t really care if she tells him or not. Knowing won’t change the fact that Daud had to die, but perhaps it will give Corvo some idea of how to defeat her.

There are some features to Delilah’s face that are similar to Jessamine’s, but the cruel, delighted smile that breaks over her face after his question is an expression that Jessamine would never have made. She could be mischievous, but she was never malicious. Even if she had blamed Delilah for breaking some fancy plate, it was only because she was afraid of the consequences, not because she wanted to see her supposed half-sister thrown out on the street.

“No,” Delilah says. “I watched him for years before I made my move. He thought I was the Outsider, but that scared little boy was too busy trying to unravel my influence on the Void to spare any time for a washed up old assassin.”

“You took his mark.” Corvo clenches his left hand, remembering the soul-deep pain that had overcome him as Delilah tore his own mark away.

“I did. Not immediately, of course. I didn’t know the _true_ extent of my powers then. I thought that the Outsider’s mark would provide protection against my abilities, as it had before.”

She’s referring to the painting Thomas mentioned, presumably. “You took the mark after they tested the serum on themselves.” Hypatia had said that was when Daud had stopped wearing his gloves.

Another cold smile. “I did. And his memories of it, including his memories of me. He still remembered being an assassin, and taking on a witch, but he didn’t know that _I_ was that witch.”

Corvo tracks her as she paces slowly in front of him. She doesn’t move like someone trained with a sword, but there’s something predatory about her gait all the same. “Why wait until then?”

“I didn’t drive him to kill _everyone_. There was some incident with an officer of the Grand Guard, something about a child, not long before he and the doctors took the serum. He was very upset about it,” she sneered, her tone coloured with disdain.

“Ah,” Corvo says before he can think better of it, “so you’re the only one allowed to be upset when a guard kills someone.”

Fury twists Delilah’s face into a vicious mask as she takes a menacing step toward him. It probably isn’t the brightest idea to antagonize the seemingly-immortal witch in the Void, which she obviously has some control over, but before Corvo can even think about backpedaling - not that he _would_ \- Delilah stops, visibly calming herself.

“I found out after that the serum lowered his inhibitions; at the time, all I knew was that it made him more susceptible to my influence. Once I’d taken the mark and cut him off from the Outsider entirely, it was simple enough to twist his _noble_ intentions for my own uses. He still wanted to atone for what he’d done, after all those years.” Delilah sneers again in remembrance.

“You convinced him that murdering Emily’s enemies would help her.” It makes a twisted sort of sense, not that Corvo wants to admit as much.

“And that leaving those messages would deter others thinking of opposing her.”

“But he wasn’t aware that he was the Crown Killer,” Corvo says.

“Not once the serum wore off,” Delilah agrees, shrugging one shoulder carelessly. “Or perhaps he was aware, deep down, and the guilt of knowing that he would never amount to more than a worthless butcher was what had him scurrying around ‘investigating’ the murders so _diligently_.”

“So what’s stopping you from doing the same to me?” Corvo asks; her reaction earlier makes him think that Delilah can’t do anything worse than summon his spirit to the Void.

“The Outsider,” Delilah spits as if the epithet is the vilest curse. _Scared little boy_ , she’d called him; Daud had referred to him as a _black-eyed bastard_. Corvo doesn’t possess the same antipathy for the deity— yet. But his feelings for the Outsider lie closer to Daud’s and Delilah’s than they do to Granny Rags’ obsessive devotion. “He put his mark on you again, and I haven’t found a way to take it away. In due time, perhaps. But his eyes are nearly always upon you. You’re dear to him.” That nasty smile curls her mouth again. “Or you were, once.”

Corvo scoffs at the notion. The Outsider doesn’t play favourites.

“You disagree? No matter. I’m sure I’ll enjoy the expression on his face when I _kill you_.”

Corvo wakes in his cabin aboard the Dreadful Wale. He sits up slowly, rubbing his hands together to chase away the phantom chill of the Void still clinging to his fingers.

They’ll see who’s laughing after Corvo eliminates Breanna Ashworth tonight; it certainly won’t be Delilah.

* * *

The night after Corvo restores Emily to her throne once more, the Outsider draws him into the Void.

The scenes dotting the vastness of the Void all share a common theme, but Corvo doesn’t care to examine them. He flits past each still life with little more than a cursory glance— Daud with a male doctor - Vasco? - examining a patient, Daud in the laboratory with Hypatia, Daud smiling in a modest kitchen with a young man.

Even in death, the man dogs his steps, at the open and close of the latest chapter of Corvo’s life _again_.

“What is it,” Corvo bites out when the Outsider finally appears before him at the last floating island. Daud, or what’s left of him, lies splayed in a dried pool of blood. There’s a note tucked between the fingers of his unmarked left hand. It probably says YOU KILLED HIM YOU KILLED HIM YOU KILLED HIM— but Corvo doesn’t care to look.

“I have one last gift for you, old friend,” the Outsider says, in tones that suggest he views Corvo as anything but an old friend. He’d been increasingly vocal about his disapproval as Corvo carved through Delilah’s conspirators, and the witches and guards who worked for them.

Again, Corvo doesn’t care. Even Jessamine’s words, whispered into his mind as he clutched her heart in his bloodstained hands, had done little to deter him. Emily’s enemies were a cancer, and everything and every _one_ that they’d touched had to be cut away, so no further threats to Emily could arise from them.

“I don’t want it,” Corvo says, but the Outsider has already conjured a heart from thin air. It floats between them, easily within his grasp should Corvo care to reach out.

He doesn’t.

Time stretches out between them, Corvo glaring into the Outsider’s fathomless eyes and the Outsider staring right back, undeterred by his hostility.

“How stubborn you are, Corvo,” the Outsider sighs out at length. Not _dear_ , not any longer. “The Empress will never know how long you paced the throne room, with no voice in your head but your own, trying to decide whether to free her or not. You told yourself it was because you couldn’t be assured of her safety, even after everything you’ve done, but the truth is—”

“Shut up,” Corvo snarls. “Shut the fuck up—”

“—you were afraid. You were afraid that when your daughter emerged from cold marble, she would be horrified by what she found. By what you’ve become,” the Outsider finishes softly, each word striking all the harder for it.

Corvo snatches up the heart floating before him; he doesn’t want the damn thing, but if it gets him out of the Void any faster—

It’s larger than Jessamine’s heart was; doesn’t fit so easily in his hand. His fingers clench reflexively around it, a poor outlet for his rage but a better alternative than attempting to lash out at the creature before him.

“This place is the end of all things,” a familiar voice rasps out, graveled and exhausted. The fine gears of the clockwork within the flesh grind together as Corvo’s grip tightens further, thin layers of muscle and flesh straining around mechanical innards. But it does not give in Corvo’s grasp, and he finds that he cannot relax his fingers to release the damn thing either. “I hope my end will come soon.”

Something like horror filters through the veil of fury. The Outsider’s face is a mask when Corvo glares up at him, but something about the set of his mouth and the glint of his dark, dark eyes suggests a grim sort of satisfaction.

“I don’t _want_ this,” Corvo snarls again, desperately.

The only reply he receives is a sudden awakening in his chambers within Dunwall Tower. The rooms still smell of death and rotting vegetation and the potent stench of magic. Corvo had considered burning it, just to exorcise the influence of Delilah and her witches, but there were too many memories within these halls.

A slow pulse beside him startles Corvo out of his thoughts; in a second, there’s a blade in his hand, descending towards—

The heart nestled on the pillow beside him. He freezes, the point of his knife just kissing the small pane of glass set into the muscle.

“What have you done to me,” Daud’s voice whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, here it is. I think most of you figured it out before now, but it was fun to try and keep you guessing. <3
> 
> next (and final) chapter is an AU of this chapter, from Emily's POV. but I haven't quite finished it yet... so the update may be late. I have a few others things on my plate atm oops


	10. you’ll be the bone // fatherland [Emily]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Outsider’s dialogue at the first shrine has been transcribed from the game, with minimal changes by me
> 
> hopefully this chapter will make up for the last one, at least a little bit, aha

Emily runs into the man in an alley not far from where Meagan lets her off. She nearly knocks him over, ducking out of the main street to avoid being spotted by a patrolling guard.

“Pardon me,” she says, even as her hand drops to her crossbow to knock him out with a sleep dart if he decides to make an issue of it.

“It’s fine,” he assures her, but he’s staring at her intently enough that he’s either lying or has recognized her.

She has no idea who he is; his face is— plain. Not particularly attractive, but not markedly unattractive either. His nose looks like it was broken at least once, but otherwise there are no distinguishing features about it. If she hadn’t run into him, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

“Are you looking for the Crown Killer?” he asks. He raises his hands in a placating gesture when she pulls out her crossbow, ignoring the blade sheathed at his side. “Wait! I— I can help you, Your Majesty.”

“Who are you?” she demands, unnerved that he truly had recognized her, even with half of her face hidden.

“I’m Thomas. I knew your father once, in the months after Empress Jessamine’s death.”

* * *

Thomas leads her down Campo Seta’s alleys, moving as swiftly and silently as Emily herself. She can’t decide what it is he does; his clothes are as plain as his face— perhaps a calculated blandness with the express purpose of causing people’s eyes to skip right over him.

“Some mystery fuels his steps,” her mother whispers when Emily points the heart at his back. “It has been nearly fifteen years but he is still loyal.”

Loyal to _whom_ , the heart doesn’t say, whispering secrets that seem to point to Thomas being trustworthy and dependable. Surely if he meant her harm, the heart would tell her.

“The man I once served was looking into the Crown Killer,” Thomas explains in an undertone as they lurk at the mouth of an alley, waiting for the patrolling guard to go past. “But I haven’t been able to find him.” He bites his lip briefly, then shakes his head. “He thought it was Dr. Vasco or Dr. Hypatia.”

“The alchemists?” Emily can’t keep her skepticism out of her voice. Sokolov was willing to infect healthy people with the rat plague to find a cure, but he’d never murdered someone so brutally and senselessly as the Crown Killer. She’d _seen_ Ichabod Boyle’s mangled corpse with her own eyes. People who dedicated their lives to helping others surely weren’t so violent. “That can’t be right.”

Thomas shrugs. “That was the last entry in his journal, more than a month ago.”

Emily doesn’t say it, but if it’s been that long, the man is probably dead.

“His apartment building was infested with bloodflies though,” Thomas continues, which isn’t exactly promising news for the man’s continued survival, “so he probably found somewhere else to stay.”

His sense of optimism seems— skewed, given how events tend to play out in reality, but he seems harmless enough otherwise. “I’m headed to Addermire anyway,” Emily says, politely disregarding his last words. “That’s where Sokolov was taken. I just have to figure out how to reach the rail carriage station.”

“Sokolov?” Thomas frowns. “What does Delilah want with him? What’s she planning?”

“Whatever it is, I’m going to stop it.”

“I’ll do what I can to help, Empress,” Thomas murmurs, then signals for them to move as the guards’ attention turns elsewhere.

* * *

They pass through an apartment seized by Overseers on their way to the station; Emily would’ve bypassed it completely, but the heart beats wildly as they go past— so whoever the Overseers took must have been at least a little guilty. Only two Overseers were left behind to guard the place and it’s simple work to take them out.

Emily pauses before the shrine, reaching out to pick up the runes hissing on the altar before she remembers Thomas’ presence.

His gaze flicks to her left hand, then away again. “I’ll hide the bodies,” is all Thomas says as he bends down to heft one of the unconscious Overseers over his shoulder. He carries the man down the hall, leaving her alone.

The Outsider drags her spirit into the Void as soon as she touches the runes. “Karnaca was a lovely city once, before the Duke began choking the life out of the place,” the Outsider begins, disappearing from sight one moment only to reappear beside or behind her the next. “Before the Crown Killer started painting the walls red. Now you're here and I have to wonder whether you're going to give it that final nudge, or pull it back from the edge. We've both seen cities go bad before. Vermin, blood and betrayal. And Daud and his men, lurking on the periphery; what are they after this time, I wonder?”

He smiles as Emily stiffens at the mention of _that name_ , but doesn’t elaborate further. “It's happening again. I hope you're ready.”

Emily finds herself back in a ransacked apartment in Karnaca a moment later, before she can demand answers from the Outsider.

Thomas is standing nearby, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently. His pose reminds her of a military man standing by for orders, but his posture isn’t rigid enough. What she remembers of Daud’s assassins is a harsh discipline, though it was held to different standards than the City Watch or the army.

He startles when she closes the distance between them, using far reach to cross the space in a second, but doesn’t react beyond a sharp intake of breath when she presses her father’s folding blade to his throat.

“You used to work for Daud.”

Thomas blinks once, glancing at the shrine for a second before returning his gaze to her. “Yes.”

“Daud’s the one who was looking for the Crown Killer.”

Thomas dips his chin in a shallow nod; any further, and he’ll split his skin on her blade.

Emily narrows her eyes at him, then steps back. “I’m watching you,” she warns, collapsing the blade but keeping it in hand to punctuate the statement.

Thomas inclines his head again. “There’s a Wall of Light blocking the entrance to Addermire Station, but I may have a way to bypass the station entirely.”

* * *

The reason Thomas hadn’t mentioned the shortcut initially was because it involved _breaking into_ the nearest Overseer outpost and stealing the mangled body of the same heretic whose apartment the Overseers had seized, all to bring the aforementioned corpse to a tattooed woman Emily suspects of being a _Howler_ , if not one of the gang’s bosses herself.

Considering his previous association with the Knife of Dunwall, Emily probably shouldn’t be surprised. What her willingness to go along with that plan says about her, Emily isn’t prepared to examine. She’s already a fugitive and the mark on her hand damns her as a heretic too; she might as well live up to those dubious titles.

And it _works_. Emily even picks up a few more runes and bone charms on the way through the outpost, so she doesn’t complain. They’re boarding the carriage to Addermire within the hour, none of the guards patrolling the area even aware that they’d passed through.

“What do you think we’ll find at Addermire?” Emily asks, her eyes on the city as they speed away from it. Karnaca sprawls at the water’s edge like Dunwall, but even from a distance she couldn’t mistake the two cities. The mountain rising above the city is the most obvious difference, but the architecture of Karnaca’s buildings is so different as well. The wind tugs at her hair, the swift breeze a balm against the heat of the Serkonan sun.

“I don’t know,” Thomas says. His gaze is fixed on the rapidly approaching island. “Daud, hopefully. He’s been working there since it opened eight years ago.”

“What,” Emily says blankly, too startled to remember the manners Callista and her other tutors tried so desperately to ingrain in her.

Thomas gives her a wounded look, as if he’s offended by Emily’s justified confusion and disbelief. “He spent a season or two at the Academy. That’s when Sokolov painted his portrait.”

Emily remembers. It had been a terrible shock to find it in Corvo’s collection of pilfered valuables, rolled up along with Sokolov’s other works in the attic the Loyalists had given him. She’d stared at it for long minutes before the sound of an approaching servant had her rolling it up again and stashing it back with the others. She had never worked up the nerve to ask Sokolov about it.

“Surely it takes longer than that to become an alchemist,” is all she says.

“He works as a nurse, I understand.”

Corvo had told her he’d spared the man who killed her mother a few months into their return to Dunwall Tower. She’d been furious and hurt then, to learn that her father had held the Knife of Dunwall’s life in his hands and simply given it back to him, just like that.

Corvo had withstood her angry shouting and then held her close through the tears that had followed. “It wasn’t mercy,” he’d said after, in that implacable tone that Emily had only ever heard after that dreadful day the Knife of Dunwall had appeared in their lives. “Daud— he regretted what he’d done. It was tearing him apart. Death would have been too quick for him; better for him to live with the knowledge of what he’d caused.”

Emily had never been afraid of Corvo, except for those brief moments in the Golden Cat before he’d peeled off the skull mask and she’d seen his face. Still, a prickle of unease had taken root in the pit of her stomach to hear him speak of his reason for sparing Daud.

He’d softened after a moment, though, his mouth quirking up in the corner. Not a true smile, but he didn’t even bother trying for anyone other than her. It soon faded. “I’ll track him down and kill him if that is your will.”

Emily had demurred that day, and though she’d considered it in the months that followed, her father’s words had stuck with her. He hadn’t taken a single life on his quest to return her to her throne, though the Pendleton twins and one of the Boyle sisters had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Regardless, she hadn’t wanted to make him take a life when he’d so obviously gone out of his way not to.

“I suppose he’d have a decent grasp of anatomy, at least,” Emily says to Thomas now. Working at Addermire wasn’t where she’d pictured the Knife of Dunwall, when she’d thought of him at all, but it’s such a stark contrast to what he’d done in Dunwall that he must have regretted killing her mother and everything that followed, as Corvo had said.

Thomas winces but doesn’t say anything else as the carriage reaches Addermire.

* * *

Thomas strips the second Grand Guard Emily chokes out, ducking around the nearest corner and emerging dressed in the guard’s uniform a few seconds later. He adopts the slow gait of an unconcerned watchman walking the same patrol he’s walked hundreds of times before, scouting ahead and eavesdropping on the other guards.

Emily could track the guards with her dark vision, and find hiding places from which to listen in on the guards’ conversation, but it’s easier to follow in Thomas’ shadow and conserve her magic. There is an abundance of vials of Addermire Solution in the place, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be able to find so many elsewhere in the city; better to stock up now.

They make it unnoticed to the disease treatment laboratory, the majority of which is covered in a fine layer of dust from apparent disuse. Several rooms off the main lab are full of bloodflies; they avoid those for the moment.

“The murders have gone on for years now,” Emily says as she peers at the desiccated husk of a bloodfly. They’re looking for clues about the Crown Killer or signs of the Knife of Dunwall, but it seems clear to her that the lab is a dead end. “And Daud—” she stumbles over his name but perseveres, “—has worked with Hypatia and Vasco for even longer. How did he not notice anything before now?”

Thomas looks troubled, pausing as he rifles through a cabinet nearby. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “He was trying to make up for what he did. Maybe he didn’t want to fall back on old ways, suspecting everyone around him.”

Emily frowns but lets the matter go.

Thomas closes the cabinet quietly and stands up, coming over to join her. She can’t stop her quiet noise of disgust as he scoops up the bloodfly husk, tucking it into one of the pouches at his hip.

“Black market dealers pay good coin for these,” Thomas tells her, apparently serious.

It reminds her, sudden and visceral, of Corvo. Her father had always had various odds and ends tucked into his pockets, or the turned up ends of his sleeve, or any other number of improbable places. At the Hound Pits, they’d almost made a game of it, Emily guessing increasingly ridiculous things that Corvo could have found on his missions, invariably delighted whether he managed to produce the item in question or not.

She’d thought she’d come to terms with the reality of what had gone on in that seemingly endless week as Corvo steadily dismantled Burrows’ regime, but somehow she’d never realized that Corvo’s tendency to pocket - or pickpocket - anything remotely of value within his vicinity was because he’d needed every bit of coin that he could get.

It’s almost a shame that Corvo never saw fit to teach her to pickpocket along with all the other skills he’d deemed necessary for her survival, but he couldn’t have foreseen that she would be cut off so suddenly and effectively from the resources that came with her throne. The gold bar that she’d managed to take out of the reserves in Dunwall won’t last forever, not with how she’s going through ammunition.

“That’s— good to know,” she says. “There might be something in those other rooms,” she adds, pulling out her crossbow and loading it with one of the incendiary bolts she’d scavenged on the way through Campo Seta.

Thomas nods grimly, pulling out similar bolts to load into— something on his wrist. Emily stares at the miniaturized crossbow strapped around his wrist, hidden by the fall of his sleeve until this moment. He could have used it on her at any point, and she would have been caught completely unaware.

“Not quite as powerful as yours, but less conspicuous,” Thomas says, either misunderstanding her stare or pretending to. “Shall we, Your Majesty?”

* * *

The rooms don’t yield anything about the Crown Killer, though Thomas finds a handful of coins.

Emily blinks when he offers them to her, still coated in ash from the charred corpse he’d pulled them from, but accepts them with muttered thanks, his earlier words still ringing in her ears.

The next floor leads to the Recuperation Area, which has the worst infestation of bloodflies Emily has seen so far. She’s only been in Serkonos for a few days, but the sheer number of individual hives covering the ward is ridiculous.

By the time they’re through exterminating all of the nests, their stock of incendiary bolts is completely depleted. Emily had to resort to her pistol to take out the pair of hives just beyond the door to the laboratory, a louder alternative than she would have preferred - but there was no other way to proceed, short of scavenging the rest of the facility for more ammunition.

The guards on the terrace outside don’t seem to have heard, and the ones on the lower floors are all unconscious. They wait back near the stairs for the sound of anyone coming to investigate, but after several long minutes without seeing or hearing another soul, they head back into the ward to search the laboratory.

The equipment here has obviously been in use recently; there isn’t a fine coating of dust on every surface. A large metal syringe sits in the middle of the main counter, labeled COUNTER-SERUM in unfamiliar writing.

“Counter to what?” Emily muses, staring down at the needle.

“Daud’s journal mentioned that they tested a new serum on themselves,” Thomas says. “I noticed that the tone of his entries changed after that.”

“That sounds safe,” Emily mutters under her breath; adds, more loudly, “I assume this isn’t his writing?”

“No.”

Emily studies it for a moment longer, then shrugs and pockets it. “We should check the rest of the lab. There could be notes or other clues pointing to the Crown Killer’s identity.”

Thomas nods and they make for the far end of the laboratory, Thomas heading towards the room on the left and Emily taking the one on the right. Thomas’ gasp, loud in the silence, draws her up short. When she turns, she finds him frozen in the doorway of a small office, silhouetted by a colourful portrait.

“What is it?” she starts to ask, hurrying to his side, but the words get stuck in her throat as the entirety of the portrait’s subject is revealed. It’s Daud, but not the man who stared out of numerous wanted posters and one memorable portrait done by Sokolov.

The Daud in this portrait is the vicious caricature of the assassin that had haunted Emily’s nightmares after her mother’s murder, his face twisted into a feral snarl. The back of his left hand is blank.

“What is this.” Emily hates the tremor that threads through her voice; she isn’t a child any longer.

It’s little comfort that Thomas is obviously as shaken as she is. “I-I don’t— This can’t be right,” he mutters, seemingly more to himself than to Emily. He shakes his head, as if he can’t comprehend what’s before him.

“Thomas.” Emily forces her voice to assume the authority she was raised to wield, his name ringing through the room. His gaze snaps to her immediately. “What. Is this.”

“It looks like one of Delilah’s portraits,” Thomas says, regaining his composure. His tone is level and matter-of-fact, as if he’s reciting a report; she supposes he is, after a fashion. “I encountered similar paintings fifteen years ago. Not in this precise style, but no artist remains static for this long.”

Fifteen years ago. The same year Daud murdered her mother. If only he’d murdered a different Kaldwin instead - not that Emily is willing to accept that Delilah was her aunt without further proof. “Why would Delilah paint Daud?”

Thomas grimaces. “Delilah was marked by the Outsider. One of the powers it granted her was the ability to control the subjects of her portraits.”

“Were you working with Delilah?” Emily demands.

“No!” Thomas snaps, bristling. When Emily just stares him down, unimpressed, he visibly calms himself. “No. Daud wasn’t even aware of Delilah before— the Empress. After he killed the Empress, it was if something broke in him. The Outsider hadn’t appeared to him for years, but he did then, offering Daud a name and the implication that unraveling the mystery might offer him some kind of solace.”

“Delilah’s name?”

Thomas nods, and an incredible story about Delilah’s first attempt to claim the throne follows.

After, Emily just stares at him. It’s a lot to take in.

Thomas looks away, his gaze catching on the portrait once more. Emily purposely doesn’t look at it again, studying the rest of the room instead in an attempt to distract herself from trying to digest everything Thomas had just told her. An audiograph player sits on the desk below the portrait, a recording card waiting to be played.

She steps over to the desk and turns the machine on.

“ _She_ says they must be killed,” a graveled voice rasps. It takes Emily a moment to recognize it as Daud’s; he had hardly spoken in her presence, and that was fifteen years ago in the wake of her mother’s murder. Her memories of that time are disjointed at best. “That they are enemies of the Empress. The influential and the wealthy, mostly. Nobles. Blue bloods.” Daud’s laughter filters out of the machine, distorted, verging on hysteria. “Their blood is no different from the lowest born urchin’s. Their bones snap just the same. Such satisfying sounds. The cracks, and the screams. I shouldn’t enjoy it. I never allowed myself to enjoy it before but I can’t help myself—”

A deafening silence falls over the office, broken only by the soft sounds of the internal machinery working; there must still be more recorded on the card.

The Crown Killer’s voice starts again a few moments later, something like regret layered through it this time. “They deserve it. I killed an Empress once, and I saved an Empress, too. I’m helping the Empress by killing those who oppose her. I’m _helping_ —!”

Emily turns on Thomas as the card ejects itself from the machine, but he only looks stricken by what they just heard. Her mother’s heart had said Thomas was trustworthy, and if he’d known the man he obviously still felt some loyalty to was in fact the Crown Killer, surely he would have put Emily off the trail rather than helping her uncover the truth.

A foot scuffing against the tile beyond the room startles them both. Emily has her blade out in an instant, and Thomas readies his wristbow, but it isn’t a guard.

The person standing just beyond the door is Daud.

* * *

“Thomas.” Daud sounds pleased as he steps into the room with them; Emily’s hackles rise, the instincts honed by her father screaming at her not to let him corner them - or let the two of them corner _her_ \- in this tiny space.

“Daud.” Thomas’ voice sounds normal, but his eyes are a bit too wide to be casual when Emily risks a glance at him. He hasn’t dropped out of his wary stance either. Her assessment seems correct, then; Thomas didn’t know, and his loyalty to Daud doesn’t extend to siding with the Crown Killer.

“I suppose you picked the lock,” Daud says. “The only ones with keys to this area are myself and—” his expression drops for a moment, something like regret crossing his face, but he rallies, “—just myself, now.”

“The door was unlocked.”

Daud frowns. “I locked it, after.” He casts a glance to the left, at the laboratory proper. “Did you move the body?”

“Whose body?” Emily demands, her voice coming out more sharply than she intends. Maintaining her composure in the face of pressure had been drilled into her by those around her, though it hadn’t always come naturally; but somehow, facing down a seemingly unaware serial murderer partially responsible for her dethroning hadn’t been covered.

Daud glances at her. “Ale— Hypatia’s. She was the Crown Killer, so I had to kill her.”

Emily can’t help exchanging a look with Thomas.

“When did you kill her?” Emily asks.

“About a month ago,” Daud says, brutally crushing any lingering hope that he isn’t the Crown Killer. Ichabod Boyle was murdered only two weeks ago. Thomas makes a soft sound, drawing Daud’s gaze. “Is this one of your spies, Thomas? Hobson mentioned you were working for Tyvia’s Spymaster, or that you _were_ their Spymaster.” Daud sounds almost proud of his former subordinate’s apparent success.

Emily casts a glare at Thomas this time, one that he ignores, focused as he is on Daud. He hadn’t mentioned the _foreign Spymaster_ part.

“Something like that,” Thomas says vaguely. “Actually, we’re looking for another agent who went missing a few months past,” he continues smoothly, which is news to Emily. Apparently there are more than a few things that he hasn’t told her. “You might remember her, she used to be a Whaler too.”

Daud doesn’t show any recognition. “Who?”

“Anna.”

Daud frowns, then shakes his head. “No, we didn’t cross paths.”

Thomas smiles, but even to Emily’s untrained eye, it looks strained. “Oh. I just thought you might have, because she’d found a lead on the Crown Killer, and since you’ve been tracking them as well—”

Daud doesn’t bat an eyelash. He could be an exceptionally skilled liar - it wouldn’t surprise Emily if he was - but he seems genuine in his ignorance. “I don’t think Hypatia got to her, but it’s a possibility.” He frowns again. “She did mention someone else close to me when I— but I think she would have brought Anna up to if she’d had something to do with her disappearance.”

“Who did this portrait?” Emily demands, frustrated by Thomas’ meandering conversation.

Daud brightens, his expression becoming animated with enthusiasm. “The Duchess. Duke Luca is a terrible ruler, but the Duchess understands what we try to do at Addermire.” His face falls slightly. “What we tried to do,” he mutters.

“It’s— certainly a unique style,” Thomas says faintly.

“What’s her name? The Duchess,” Emily clarifies impatiently.

“Are you a new recruit?” Daud sounds faintly amused. “It’s Delilah.”

Thomas chokes, tries to pass it off as a cough, and manages, “Delilah. Like the witch you eliminated fifteen years ago.”

“Like the new Empress,” Emily adds.

Daud looks at them blankly. “The witch we fought wasn’t named Delilah. And Emily Kaldwin is still the Empress.”

“He doesn’t remember; or if he does, he’s repressing it.” Alexandria Hypatia stands behind Daud, a grave expression on her face.

In the seconds before he turns to look, Daud looks as if he’s been stabbed, or seen a ghost.

“You’re dead,” he says. “I killed you—”

Hypatia keeps her gaze on Daud, but she addresses Emily and Thomas, ignoring Daud’s increasingly forceful words. “You know who the Crown Killer is now, and you must suspect that he isn’t entirely aware of his own actions. He is not; the serum made him susceptible to Delilah’s influence.” Her gaze shifts from Daud to Emily, her eyes intent and nearly as difficult to meet as the Outsider’s black-eyed stare. “You have the counter-serum, and you have your sword. Do what you must.”

“She could be lying,” Thomas says. “She—”

Daud groans, doubling over, and when he straightens an obvious change has come over him. Hypatia’s eyes widen and she backs away as he advances.

“Or not,” Emily mutters, as Daud - as the _Crown Killer_ \- lunges at Hypatia. Even enhanced by whatever experimental serum they’ve been taking, Emily’s far reach allows her to close swiftly with Daud and strike while he’s distracted.

* * *

Daud slumps to the floor of the laboratory after Emily injects him with the counter-serum, unconscious.

“Are you all right?” Emily asks, turning to Hypatia after she makes sure that Daud is really out.

The alchemist blinks at her. “Hm? Oh. Yes, I suppose.”

Thomas steps up beside them, an unreadable expression on his face as he stares down at Daud. “I’ll take him with me—”

“No.”

The denial startles Emily, but— she wants to keep an eye on Daud. Administering the counter-serum and leaving Daud to live with his probable regret is exactly what her father would have done, had their places been exchanged, but she isn’t certain how effectively he has been neutralized. The traitor, Ramsey, won’t be escaping her safe room, but Daud could still be used as a pawn for Delilah.

Thomas stares at her, still impossible to read. “As you wish,” he says at length. He glances between her and Daud. “Thank you, for sparing him. I don’t know if the Royal Protector would have done the same.”

“He would have,” Emily says confidently, almost offended on his behalf. Corvo never spilled blood if he could find another way, and he’d spared Daud fifteen years ago.

“Maybe,” Thomas concedes. “Allow me to come with you. I can help you take out the rest of Delilah’s supporters, or simply gather information if you’re unwilling to work directly with me.”

“I’d like to accompany you as well,” Hypatia puts in. “Even if it’s just off the island. I haven’t been able to slip away between the guard presence and avoiding Daud’s notice.”

Thomas has already proven himself a reliable partner, and Hypatia knows about the Crown Killer and Delilah; it isn’t a hard decision to make.

“All right. Let’s leave before anyone notices we’re here.”

* * *

“It’ll be a tight fit in the rail carriage, but we should be able to manage,” Thomas says. Daud is broader and a few inches taller than him, but if he has any trouble carrying the man through the halls, he doesn’t complain.

Emily doesn’t offer to help. She spared the man - the Knife of Dunwall, _the Crown Killer_ \- but she isn’t going to carry his dead weight.

“Meagan can bring the skiff around to the dock once I disable to watchtower,” she says. “Though it’ll be just as cramped.”

Thomas’ steps falter, Daud’s limp body almost slipping from his shoulder as he whips his head around to look at her. Hypatia steps up to his side, grabbing Daud before he can fall.

“What is it?” Emily frowns. “Do you know Meagan? Meagan Foster?”

“I— did,” Thomas says tightly, readjusting his grip.

“Let me guess: you knew her once, fifteen years ago,” Emily says, pitching her voice slightly lower in a mimicry of Thomas’ voice.

Thomas looks sheepish as they make their way towards the back entrance. “Maybe.”

Emily scoffs. “I suppose she was another of the Whalers.”

Thomas’ silence is deafening.

“ _What_.”

* * *

“Thomas,” Meagan says.

Thomas nods to her. “Meagan.”

They stare each other down for several moments, until Emily loses what remains of her patience and nudges Thomas towards the skiff. He casts her a reproachful look as he rights himself, then steps carefully onto the boat.

“This is Dr. Hypatia,” Emily adds, boarding the boat behind him. “Dr. Hypatia, Meagan Foster.”

“Thank you for allowing me aboard your vessel, Ms. Foster,” Hypatia says, joining Emily on the bench.

“Not a problem. And just call me Meagan.” She glances at Thomas, who’s fussing over how to arrange Daud in what little space remains in the skiff. “And who’s _that_?” Meagan doesn’t sound impressed.

“It’s Daud,” Thomas says quietly.

A number of emotions flash across Meagan’s usually-guarded face at that admission before she gets that stoic mask back up. “He’s not dead, is he?” Her eye flicks to Emily, something like an accusation there.

“He’s alive,” Emily says tersely, irked by the implication. As if a former assassin could judge Emily for taking the life of the man who murdered her mother and helped frame her, however unwittingly, for the other murders he committed for Delilah. She wonders if Meagan or Thomas were there that day, the day her entire world came crumbling down around her, then decides she doesn’t want to know.

Silence falls for the moment. Emily watches Thomas visibly give up and seat himself in the floor of the boat, propping Daud up beside him. The lines of Daud’s face are less severe in unconsciousness; Emily wonders how he’ll react upon awakening, then tries not to care. She looks away, eager to return to the Dreadful Wale and the privacy of her cabin.

“But why was Daud—?” Meagan starts.

“He was a nurse at Addermire,” Hypatia says. “And the Crown Killer.”

“What? No, that doesn’t make any sense.” Meagan’s confusion blends into anger, and she looks at _Emily_ as if she expects her to have the answers. Which is ironic, considering Emily is the one with the fewest secrets in this little boat. Even Hypatia wouldn’t give Emily a straight answer to most of her questions.

“It’s true,” Thomas says.

The two of them stare each other down again; just as Emily’s patience is about to snap, Meagan turns aside, focusing her attention on piloting them away from Addermire.

* * *

Daud awakens as they’re boarding Meagan’s ship. He gives them plenty of warning, stirring and groaning as he regains consciousness. He presses a hand to his forehead, his face a pained mask.

“What happened to—” Meagan glances at Emily; specifically, to her left hand and the band of cloth wrapped around it.

“Delilah, I imagine. She took my father’s mark too,” Emily mutters.

“—Lurk?” Daud’s voice is rougher than before, shaded with confusion. He blinks at Meagan as if he’s seeing a ghost. Then his gaze slides to the side, falling on Emily herself, his eyes widening even further.

Emily had pulled her scarf down as soon as they’d neared the Dreadful Wale; he must recognize her face now.

“What happened?” Daud shrugs off Thomas’ arm and steps closer to Emily, looking genuinely worried. It’d be weird under any circumstances, but given his involvement in recent events, it’s even more unnerving. “Where’s Corvo? Why are you—?”

He stiffens as he notices Hypatia, and things go downhill all over again. Meagan ushers Hypatia away, leaving Emily and Thomas to deal with Daud.

“I’m not— I—” Daud’s pacing the deck with a nervous energy, his hands - bare and unmarked - shaking as he pushes them through his hair. But he doesn’t seem on the verge of becoming the Crown Killer again, so that’s an improvement. “I’m not the Crown Killer, Thomas.” He reaches for the other man but stops when Thomas takes a hasty step back; the stricken expressions on their faces are nearly identical.

“You were, Daud,” Thomas says quietly.

Daud flinches. “I was looking into the Crown Killer,” he mutters, but his tone sounds defeated.

“Some kind of— delusion. Dr. Hypatia didn’t know if it was a distraction set up by Delilah to keep you from realizing the truth, or an earnest effort on your part.” The words seem to pain Thomas, but not as much as they do Daud, who turns away and paces to the edge of the deck.

“But Dr. Hypatia says the counter-serum worked,” Thomas adds, following him over but still stopping a safe distance away. Emily follows too, wary of Daud losing it again. “You won’t be susceptible to Delilah’s influence any longer—”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I killed all those people! Bartholomeus— _Sylvio_ —” Daud’s face pales visibly and he twists around, his fingers curling white-knuckled over the edge of the ship.

“Daud—” Thomas freezes, hands outstretched as if to pull him away from the water as Daud retches over the side.

“Fuck,” Daud says thickly, his head still hanging over the edge of the ship, back turned. “ _Fuck_. Why did you bring me with you? You should have left me behind, or slit my worthless fucking throat! You can’t trust me. What if _she_ — What am I going to tell Rulfio and Rinaldo—”

Meagan returns then, looking worried.

“Yell for me if he tries to kill you,” Emily says, exhausted for all that she had done little more than walk around all day, and ignores Meagan’s accusing look as she heads for her cabin.

* * *

“Does the serum work?” Emily asks, leaning casually against the door frame of Hypatia’s cabin.

“So far, yes.” Hypatia regards her calmly, straightening up from the trunk she’d been rummaging through. “Do you have reason to believe otherwise?”

“You’re behaving strangely.”

Hypatia blinks once; crosses her arms over her chest. “We’ve never met before, Your Majesty.”

“But I know your reputation. The people of Karnaca love you.” Emily straightens as well, her hands dropping to her sides. That the motion happens to bring her weapons that much closer to her reach is simply a coincidence. “I received reports about the work you did; your kindness and your compassion. You’re not like Jindosh or Sokolov, you don’t _do_ what you do for the recognition it will garner you. Yet all I’ve seen from you is cold detachment.”

Hypatia glances to the side, her gaze fixing on the ground as her brows furrow. “Am I not allowed to grieve? My partner was murdered by a man we both trusted. By a man whose reputation I knew before hiring him on, but I thought that he’d changed.” Her mouth twists into a pained grimace. “Daud— didn’t mean to do what he did,” she whispers. “He wasn’t in his right mind. But that doesn’t mean I can forgive him for it.”

The raw tone in Hypatia’s voice seems too genuine to be faked. Emily feels a pang of regret for pushing her, but she needs to know. If the serum isn’t completely effective, they’ve allowed at least one dangerous enemy into their midst; possibly two, depending on how involved Hypatia was with Delilah and her allies.

“Initially,” Hypatia murmurs as if to herself, unaware of Emily’s inner turmoil, “I was unaware of my alter ego. Grim Alex, she called herself. But Delilah wanted a more effective serum, one that would reduce Daud’s resistance if not erase it entirely. Grim Alex lacked the expertise to craft such a thing herself, so she— pushed me to do it for her. Before, she was content to only assume control of my body to make me administer the serum, but as she exerted her will upon my actions more and more often, I came to realize that I was not entirely myself, and with that knowledge came awareness.”

Hypatia paces the three short steps from one wall of the cabin to the other, and back again. Her arms curl around herself now, as if she can hold herself together that way. “Our positions were reversed; Grim Alex was the one unaware of my observation, and I—” She shudders, her gaze fixed on some middle distance. “I witnessed— horrors. The Crown Killer murders. Delilah sent me - us - to oversee Daud’s missions. Perhaps those experiences are what changed me; or perhaps some part of Grim Alex’s persona bled into my own. All I know is that I cannot trust anyone blindly any longer. And whether I will ever be able to do so again is uncertain.”

“You and me both,” Emily mutters, but in truth she hasn’t been able to trust anyone blindly since Daud murdered her mother. She shakes her head, pushing those thoughts away; Hypatia’s griefs are fresher, and she has already offered Emily more than she asked for. “You’re welcome here as long as you like. I’ll talk to Meagan about it.”

Hypatia bows her head. “Thank you.”

* * *

Emily helps Meagan empty the tiny cabin off the common area that night, keeping quiet about the remnants of her life as a Whaler and her attempts to find Daud that they move upstairs.

Hypatia doesn’t have much information about Delilah’s supporters - apparently Grim Alex had been largely content to follow orders, up until Delilah pointed Daud’s investigation in her direction - but the names she offers are somewhere to start, at least.

She heads out for Jindosh’s mansion the following day, leaving Thomas behind with Hypatia and Daud. The former Whaler had promised to help her but Emily is more worried about leaving Daud alone. She hasn’t seen him since he disappeared into Meagan’s former cabin, and she is— slightly concerned about his state of mind. But more pressingly, she doesn’t trust him alone on the ship.

“Good luck,” Meagan says when they reach Lower Aventa.

Emily nods, already focused on what information Hypatia and Meagan had been able to offer on the district and the Grand Inventor.

The first rune that she finds is actually a pair at a shrine. She knows what to expect this time, and isn’t startled when the Outsider draws her into the Void as soon as she picks up the runes.

“You continue to surprise me, Empress Emily,” the Outsider says, but the faintly sarcastic emphasis on her title is absent; in fact, he almost sounds— delighted. “First, you spared the man who invited enemies into your home on the day of your mother’s murder. Then, you not only spared the man who murdered your mother, but you saved him from Delilah’s clutches and took him with you. Fascinating.”

“My father would have done the same,” Emily insists. That she can actually answer the Outsider is a surprise, but she’ll make the most of it while it lasts.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” The Outsider disappears, blooming into existence at her side, his feet on the ground rather than hovering above it. “But _you_ are the one making these choices, and I’m certain both your parents would be proud.”

Her mother— already knows, as much as the scrap of her spirit trapped in the heart’s confines can be aware of anything. And she’ll tell her father about everything when she takes her throne back from Delilah and frees him from cold marble.

“That lieutenant of his already thanked you, but allow me to extend you the same courtesy: thank you, Emily Kaldwin, for saving Daud.”

Emily blinks at him. “Thomas said you hadn’t spoken to Daud in years before you gave him Delilah’s name.”

“He became boring,” the Outsider agrees blithely. “Most of the mortals I mark do. But it is rare for them to catch my eye again, and Daud managed it twice.” A strange expression crosses his face then; it almost looks like guilt. “He noticed Delilah’s influence over the Void before I did, and I was too occupied with rooting out the cause to stop her from sinking her thorns into him.”

“How _did_ Delilah—”

“You will find out. Soon.”

The Outsider shoves her out of the Void without warning, leaving her alone in front of the shrine— aside from the corpse lying in one corner, that is.

Emily sighs, tucking the runes away, and heads for the stairs.

* * *

The journey back to regaining her throne isn’t an easy one, but Emily manages it without spilling any blood. She even finds a way to trap Delilah in her magnum opus; hopefully, she’ll be too distracted by her ideal world to realize that she’s been duped. If Delilah finds a way to escape that and come back for the throne again—

Emily doesn’t even want to consider it.

Freeing her father is simple; he collapses as the dark marble recedes from his skin, but she’s there to catch him. He clutches at her, murmuring her name, and she grasps him back just as tightly, blinking back tears. She’s lost her mother’s voice again, but at least she still has her father.

It wasn’t easy getting here, and it won’t be easy to restore Dunwall to what it once was - she shudders to think of the state of the rest of the city - but her father is at her side and she can count on the open support of Duke Armando, more subtle support from Tyvia’s Spymaster (apparently Thomas actually was the man in charge, not just a lowly spy himself) and at least some support from Morley, even if it’s just from Wyman and their family.

They’ll figure it out.

* * *

“You teamed up with a former Whaler?” Corvo demands a few days later, once she finally gets around to telling him what happened after he was turned to stone. It’s odd that that’s the part he gets hung up on, not the _foreign Spymaster_ thing, but he’s seemed a bit off since she returned.

Emily hasn’t decided if she’s the one who changed or not, but it’s must be her. Corvo was cast in cold marble while she was off in Karnaca, after all.

“Yes, I did. And he’s pledged his support through whatever means he can.”

Corvo scowls and takes a sip of coffee. “So, who was the Crown Killer? I take it you found them.”

Emily nods. “It was Daud.”

Corvo coughs, raising his free - and unwrapped, Emily’s still getting used to that - hand to his mouth to stop from spewing his coffee all over the table. “ _What_.”

Breakfast runs long as she tells him the whole story, Corvo’s expression going darker the more she explains.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Corvo mutters after Emily finishes relating the circumstances that had led to Daud assuming the mantle of Crown Killer.

Emily stares at him, shocked, for long enough that Corvo notices her silence. His face softens.

“You did well, Emily.”

Not _it’s what I would have done_ or _I’m glad you didn’t take any lives_ , as she might have expected.

The Outsider claimed her actions would have made her parents proud, and Emily believed him. Her mother’s final words to her had confirmed it. But Corvo— doesn’t seem proud, or even truly approving, of what she accomplished.

“I thought it’s what you would have done,” Emily says, hiding her unease.

Corvo takes another sip of his coffee and grimaces immediately; it must be cold. “It’s what I did with Burrows and the rest of his supporters, but I don’t know if it was enough.”

“It was. It _is_.” Emily takes a breath, counts from five, and releases it. “We’re safe. Delilah is dealt with. We dragged Dunwall back from the brink of the plague; a couple of months of witches is nothing compared to that.”

Corvo bows his head. “I hope you’re right, Empress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you very much to estora, Kogouma, spookalien, friedeggs, dreabean and everyone else who has left comments, kudos and bookmarks for the fic! I really appreciate your support, you made writing this worthwhile <3
> 
> there will be one more chapter after this one, containing postscripts for Corvo and Emily's chapters. because this is the fic that doesn't want to end. :')


	11. postscripts i & ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so once again I have to ~~blame~~ thank Estora for asking about the Outsider actually finding Daud after Corvo kills him and prompting me to write the first postscript. and then I realized that there was a bit more of Daud and Emily's story to tell but, frankly, Emily's chapter was already too long so. postscripts.
> 
> the first one takes place midway through Corvo's chapter and the second one is set during Emily's.

_postscript i_

The Outsider watches Corvo tear a bloody swath through Karnaca, but he also watches for Daud in the Void. With all of the spirits passing through courtesy of Corvo’s rampage and Delilah’s attempt at ruling, it’s a minor miracle that the Outsider finds Daud at all, but after he realized Delilah’s encroachment on the Void, the Outsider has become much more vigilant in regards to the spirits that happen to share the Void with him at any given moment.

The wayward spirit manifests as the Outsider prefers to remember him - clad in the trademark uniform of Daud’s assassins, his face lined with age and by that distinctive scar, his shoulders bowed with regret as they had only been in those months after he’d murdered an empress. One of the lowest points of his life, but he had never shone so brightly as he did then even when he’d first caught the Outsider’s eye.

Of course, Daud had been overshadowed by Corvo at that point. It had been easy for the Outsider to turn away from the man who wanted nothing more than to live out the life that Corvo had given him in obscurity when Corvo was going about assuring Emily’s rule with such a deceptively delicate hand. Unless the situation had demanded it and there were no other alternatives, Corvo always chose the path that would leave his blade and hands clean of blood.

Or he had, until Delilah’s coup. Or perhaps it had truly been the revelation of the Crown Killer’s identity that had given Corvo that final push over the edge. He’d only killed Ramsey before that.

Now, in the Void, Daud stares at the Outsider without recognition. He wears his signature long gloves, but there is no mark for them to conceal. His blank gaze shifts away, taking in the muddy darkness of the Void.

It hadn’t been this tainted by Delilah’s influence when Daud had first pointed it out, the changes so subtle and gradual as to escape the Outsider’s notice. He’d told Daud then that the Void was unchanging; it should have been, _had_ been for the four millennia that the Outsider had been its prisoner.

That conversation was to have been the last time they spoke— and it had been, but not for the reasons that the Outsider intended.

“Daud. My— dear friend.” The Outsider stumbles over how to address the man before him.

Daud gazes at him, brow furrowed. “Who are you?” he asks. “Only the black-eyed bastard exists here.”

Hearing Daud’s usual epithet for him applied to Delilah is more painful than the Outsider would have expected. Certainly it’s more painful than the disparaging way Daud used to toss it around whenever he felt remotely uncharitable towards the Outsider. Back then, it had been almost amusing, in the same way a dog barking at the moon might have been.

“Delilah cannot reach you here,” the Outsider says, stepping closer. Daud’s grey eyes track him warily. “There is no reason for your memories to remain tainted.”

Daud steps back when the Outsider reaches for him. “If I forgot you, it must have been for a reason.”

That gives the Outsider pause. “You do not wish to remember?”

Daud’s jaw clenches, uncertainty flickering across his face and through his thoughts. One thing about him that will never change is his inability to abide a mystery. “Would my memories tell me why Corvo killed me?”

“You already know why Corvo killed you.”

Daud crosses his arms over his chest. “No. Alexan— Hypatia. The Crown Killer. She lied to him. How could he believe that I—” Daud’s mouth twists, and he looks away.

The Outsider had never paid much attention to the misfits and outcasts that Daud had gathered to himself; he wasn’t even aware that both of Daud’s most recent lieutenants were in Karnaca until Corvo stumbled across Thomas at Addermire. But he thinks he can understand now how Thomas had felt upon finding out that Daud was the Crown Killer.

“It’s true, Daud.” He says it as gently as he knows how, although no matter how soft his tone is, there is no way to soften the truth.

Daud shakes his head. “No. You’re wrong, you’re— you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns away, pacing to the edge of the floating island and staring out into the haze.

“If you jump off, your spirit will continue its journey through the Void and pass beyond this world,” the Outsider says.

“What happens then?” Daud demands bitterly, his gaze fixed stubbornly forward.

Against his will, the Outsider’s mouth curls into a small smile. Daud never could abide a mystery. “I do not know.”

“I thought you knew everything. Aren’t you the _Outsider_?” Daud means to sneer, but a look of pain crosses his face instead, memories and truths that he had purposely forgotten threatening to bloom in his mind with the admission of his knowledge of the Outsider’s identity.

“You can pass on,” the Outsider says again, loath as he would be to see Daud go. He has never encountered one of the mortals he marked in the Void after their death before. He does not think he will do so again.

“I thought spirits with unresolved issues couldn’t pass on.” It’s a weak attempt at humour, the thin smile Daud manages to muster to go along with it quickly fading. His memories press at the barriers Delilah had made and that Daud had unwittingly maintained even after he passed beyond her reach.

“Abbey of the Everyman superstition,” the Outsider returns with a flippancy he doesn’t truly feel. Something in his chest aches.

“I was ready to die,” Daud says, softly at first but with rising urgency. “I put my life in his hands and I asked him to spare me but I was _ready_ —”

“Hush.” The Outsider steps closer; touches Daud’s left hand with no intent beyond offering what meagre comfort a lonely leviathan could provide.

Daud draws in a shuddering breath, his fingers clenching around the Outsider’s. “I defeated the witch, but that didn’t make up for what I’d done. Nothing could. But I still _tried_. I— I helped people. I helped Bartholomeus and Alexandria save lives. I only wanted to _help_!”

The grip on the Outsider’s hand becomes strangling; in profile, Daud’s expression is anguished.

“I’m sorry, Daud,” the Outsider says. It feels and sounds trite; he cannot recall ever apologizing before. The words are sincere, but they ring hollow; nevertheless, they are all he has.

“Don’t be. Not your fault I couldn’t deal with one witch properly.” Daud swipes at his eyes with his free hand, moisture smearing across the leather of his glove.

“Delilah’s spirit would have passed through the Void as yours is now. I cannot say what might have been had you put your blade through her instead of turning her possession ritual back upon her.”

Daud exhales a ragged breath. “You’re shit at comforting people, you bastard.”

“It is rather anathema to my usual modus operandi,” the Outsider acknowledges, smiling faintly when that prompts a wet laugh from Daud. “I thought I might make an exception for a dear friend, no matter how ungrateful and forgetful.”

He stiffens when Daud rounds on him, arm raised, and can only blink in bewilderment over the man’s shoulder when Daud pulls him into an embrace.

“Fuck you,” Daud mutters into his stiff shoulder.

“Is your memory really so defective that you’ve forgotten your own preferences?” But the Outsider carefully encircles his other arm around Daud’s broad frame.

“Bastard.”

The Outsider pats him awkwardly on the back, over the jut of his scapula. Were Daud still alive, the Outsider might have been able to feel the steady beating of his heart through his fingertips.

“What’s Corvo doing now?” Daud asks at length, showing no signs of letting go of the Outsider any time soon.

At this very instant? Stalking the halls of the Royal Conservatory, methodically slaughtering every witch unfortunate enough to stumble across his path, the same as he did with the guards stationed outside. Breanna Ashworth won’t live out the hour.

“Dismantling Delilah’s supporters in Karnaca.”

“The same way he dismantled Burrows’ regime, or as he did with—” _the Crown Killer,_ the Outsider hears him think, clear as day, “—me?”

“The latter.” The Outsider cannot keep his bitter disappointment out of his voice.

Daud draws back, letting his arm fall back to his side, though he keeps his hand clasped around the Outsider’s. “I’m sorry—”

“Do not be,” the Outsider snaps, more harshly than he intends.

Daud grins crookedly. “I can’t help feeling partially responsible. I killed the Empress and helped overthrow her daughter— even if I didn’t mean to.”

“Corvo’s choices are his own.”

“Maybe.” Daud might be more agreeable in death than he was in life, but he still does not hesitate to make his doubt known.

“You still wish to help him.” Disbelief colours his voice now; this is truly incredible.

Daud’s grin widens into a smile, seemingly genuine. “Sometimes a punch to the face or the gut is helpful.” But he does not truly mean it; he sincerely wishes to aid Corvo.

The Outsider tilts his head. “Perhaps there is a way.”

In another time, under a different context, the way Daud’s face goes from amusement to wariness might be entertaining. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” the Outsider says, after a few moment’s deliberation. “But you would find out eventually.”

Daud considers that. He wants to know what the Outsider has in mind - of course he does - but the Outsider’s warning gives him pause. If it is too unpleasant, Daud worries he will be unwilling to go through with it; at the same time, he thinks he deserves whatever potentially cruel fate the Outsider has in store for him.

The Outsider almost considers rescinding his words, but Daud speaks first.

“How bad will it be for Corvo?”

It is difficult to see too far ahead; the future is constantly in flux, and Delilah’s influence obscures it even more. There is no guarantee that Corvo will even succeed, but if he _does_ —

“It will not be particularly pleasant.”

Some part of Daud finds that outcome fitting, but his main motivation remains the idea that he ought to be punished. “Then I’ll do it.”

“If you’re certain,” the Outsider presses.

Daud gives him a narrow look. “Have you ever known me to back down once I’ve made up my mind? Just get it over with, already.”

The Outsider inclines his head. “So be it.”

* * *

The Outsider continues to watch Corvo, but he derives no satisfaction from it. He killed only the traitor, Ramsey, on his way out of Dunwall, but after Daud was revealed as the unwitting Crown Killer, he seemed to lose whatever tattered remnants of restraint he had had left. He slaughtered the guards he came across as he headed for the watchtower beyond Addermire, and the trend continued on his missions to kill Jindosh and the rest of Delilah’s supporters.

Gone is the man who slipped softly through the shadows, rendering those enemies he couldn’t avoid unconscious and hiding their bodies rather than leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. Corvo is as bad as Daud was at the height of his years as the infamous Knife of Dunwall. As Corvo’s body count rises, the Outsider revises that assessment: he’s _worse_ than Daud ever was; Daud only killed the people he was paid to, along with a few witnesses or bodyguards who got in the way. Corvo seems bent on murdering everyone in his path.

After he leaves Ashworth choking on her own blood in front of Delilah’s statue, he tears through Paolo and the Howlers, then does the same to Byrne and his Overseers on the other side of the Dust District. Neither group was allied with Delilah; both of them opposed Luca Abele and, by extension, Delilah herself. That fact doesn’t save any of them.

There are still echoes of the man the Outsider first marked fifteen years ago. Corvo still slips through Karnaca’s streets unseen, but now he turns his talents and powers to death. He summons hordes of rats to devour enemies rather than blasts of wind to provide distractions; stops time to shoot multiple enemies with bullets and crossbow bolts rather than sleep darts.

He doesn’t regret any of it; the Outsider wonders if he ever will.

“He will. One day,” Daud’s heart whispers. It lays on the stone altar next to him, beating at infrequent intervals. The Outsider guards this place, and the statues of those who killed him and made him what he is now, much more carefully these days.

The Outsider draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The Void is always cold, but this ancient, far-flung section of it seems even more frigid. “How can you be certain?” he asks, glancing at the heart.

“I know a great deal.” An echo of Daud’s first words to Corvo, and a trace of the sometimes-morbid humour that Daud employed with dry wit.

“I’m sorry,” the Outsider says again. What remains of Daud may not even remember what the apology is for, or that this is the second time the Outsider has offered it.

Daud’s heart beats three times before any response is forthcoming. The reply, when it does come, is shaded with exhaustion. “As am I.”

 

 

_postscript ii_

Despite Thomas’ offer of aid, Emily ends up performing most of her missions alone; she doesn’t ask Thomas to carry out reconnaissance or accompany her into Karnaca proper. While he feels guilty about leaving her to fend for herself, she has obviously been trained well and— Daud needs him more.

The strangest things set him off. His former master has always been a private, controlled man - tendency to leave his journal in the open aside, not that Thomas can judge him for that - and in the days after their arrival on the Dreadful Wale, after that horrible first day as Daud slowly, grudgingly came to terms with his identity as the Crown Killer, almost manages to act as normal.

Neither of them mentions the nightmares that wake Daud and, from his thrashing and low noises, Thomas as well.

Daud and Thomas are the first ones up the morning after Emily severs Breanna Ashworth’s connection with the Void, but Meagan comes down from the wheelhouse within the hour. Hypatia emerges not long after the smell of brewing coffee spreads below deck, dark circles under her eyes to rival the ones beneath Daud’s.

Hypatia has been carefully civil to Daud, which Daud returns; but he can’t seem to bring himself to look at her. The spectre of the Crown Killer seems to lurk in the corner of the room when the two of them share it, an almost tangible presence that quickly becomes stifling.

Meagan makes small talk with Hypatia this morning, inquiring about past projects and other anecdotes; it leaves Thomas free to watch Daud, who pushes the fried eggs Thomas had cooked earlier around his plate with little - if any - intention of actually eating them.

Thomas listens with half an ear - such an old habit that he doubts he could break it now - to Meagan and Hypatia’s conversation but loses track of the thread somewhere along the way. He startles when he hears Hypatia mention Grim Alex.

“Who’s Grim Alex?” Meagan asks. Thomas can’t tell if she’s flirting or not, then decides for the sake of his own sanity that he only has the capacity to worry about Daud and Emily.

“The split personality I developed after testing the serum,” Hypatia says blithely. Thomas stifles an inappropriate snicker, appalled at himself. He isn’t in his early twenties any longer, and he shouldn’t take such petty satisfaction in seeing Meagan crash and burn. He isn’t even familiar enough to know if Meagan _is_ trying to flirt.

“Ah.” Meagan takes a bite of her toast. “What was yours called, Daud?”

As soon as she says it, she regrets it; Thomas sees the look that crosses her face when he glares at her. The easy rapport between them is long gone, and while everyone is desperately pretending that everything is all right, this seems a step too far.

“He didn’t—” Hypatia begins into the strained silence, just as Daud drawls, “The Big Knife.”

“Wow,” Meagan says, disdain dripping from her voice. Between that familiar tone and Daud’s smirk, Thomas can almost imagine they’re back in the Flooded District, before everything went to shit. The Dreadful Wale only leaks part of the time, though; it ruins the image. “If only you’d been the Big Spoon and cuddled people instead of murdering them.”

Daud’s smirk slips into a grimace. “Well, you know me. Always did prefer killing to fucking.”

Thomas snorts, pressing a hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to stem his laughter. It’s tinged with hysteria, but Daud’s mouth curls up into that crooked smile and Meagan scoffs and Hypatia watches it all with a faintly bemused air, so maybe it’ll be all right.

The door to Sokolov’s cabin bangs open. “You’re all having entirely too much fun out here!” Sokolov roars at a volume Thomas wouldn’t have expected from an old man, much less one recovering from intense torture. “Can’t an old man _sleep_?” He stomps over to the table to steal a piece of toast off of Meagan’s plate. Meagan’s indignant protest and half-hearted attempts to fend him off only set Thomas off again, and Hypatia joins him this time.

The hairs on the back of Thomas’ neck stand on end and Emily appears in their midst a moment later, the flare of the mark fading to hide behind the fabric she wraps around her left hand.

“What are you doing. I heard shouting—” She squints at them, her hair a tangled mess. She must have come to investigate as soon as their rowdiness woke her; she’s wearing her dark coat and not much else. Thomas keeps his gaze on her face after realizing that; she has her folding blade in her other hand. “God,” she mutters disgustedly, seeming to realize that they were all joking around, or at least not under attack, and turns to stalk out in a more mundane fashion.

“I feel old,” Thomas says.

“Don’t say that,” Daud mutters into his coffee. He still hasn’t eaten much of anything, not that Thomas has brought that up with him yet. “I’m old enough to be your father.”

“Weren’t you the one who called him ‘Dad’ the most, Thomas?”

Thomas rounds on Meagan with narrowed eyes.

Meagan smiles at him, the one that promised that she would remember the topic at hand for later, and turns the conversation over to Emily’s next mission.

* * *

Things come to a head when Meagan returns from Batista later that day with an exhausted Emily, some blood sausage from Stilton and sans Hypatia, who claimed her services were needed in the mining district.

Emily and Daud still have yet to exchange more than a handful of words; she seems content to ignore him, having done everything she needed to do simply by saving him. Daud does the same, wracked by guilt for what he helped put her through again.

But she’s tired enough that she sits down beside him at the makeshift table, on the side opposite Thomas, watching Meagan bustle around the ship’s kitchen with a strange expression on her face. As if she doesn’t recognize the woman before her.

“Did you find out anything more about Delilah, Your Majesty?” Thomas asks.

“Yes.” Her reply is almost drowned out by the hiss of the pan as Meagan drops the sausages in.

She doesn’t sound like she wants to talk about it. Thomas switches tack. “How did you get past the Jindosh Lock?”

Emily glances over at him, a shadow of a smile on her face. “I tried to solve it myself, but didn’t have much luck. Turns out Paolo was—” She falters, frowning, but before Thomas can change the subject - or press her for more information - Daud suddenly shoves away from the table between them.

Thomas is vaguely aware that Emily’s attention snaps to Daud as swiftly as his own. Daud’s face has gone pale, what parts of it are visible around the hand he has pressed over his mouth tinged distinctly greenish as he stands frozen, his eyes fixed on the kitchen.

Emily uses that strange power - far reach, she calls it - that seems to serve the dual function of Daud’s transversal and tethering abilities to pull a pot over. She shoves it into Daud’s free hand and he immediately turns away to curl over it and retch.

He doesn’t bring much up besides saliva and bile; he’s barely eaten anything in the days since they boarded the Dreadful Wale.

“Fuck,” Daud mutters raggedly.

“I didn’t like the look of those carrots in any case,” Sokolov says lightly, glancing over from his portrait of the rightful Empress, but there’s a worried cast to his eyes.

“Ha, ha.” Daud casts a half-hearted glare at him and stomps over to the open window to toss the ruined carrots into the bay.

“What’s wrong?” Meagan asks, peering out of the kitchen.

“Nothing,” Daud snarls.

For a moment, Thomas and Meagan share a commiserating look; there’s no talking to Daud when the man isn’t in the mood to share.

Daud looks haunted before he tucks it away and puts on the stoic face he’s been wearing lately. “Cooking meat all smells the same,” he explains gruffly.

Meagan frowns at him, but Daud stalks past her and slams the door of the cabin he and Thomas had been sharing. The lock engages with an audible snap.

“The Crown Killer’s victims,” Emily says, obviously reluctant. “Some of them were burnt and some of them had— parts missing.”

Thomas stares at her in horror. That would explain Daud’s reluctance to eat anything.

Meagan looks sick, casting a dismayed look at the blood sausage sizzling in the pan. “I didn’t think—”

“None of us did, Meagan,” Sokolov says gently. “But there’s no point in wasting the food; he’d hate that even more.”

* * *

Predictably, Daud doesn’t emerge even after the subdued evening meal, and snarls at Thomas to leave when he knocks cautiously on the door. Short of breaking it down - which he doubts Meagan would appreciate, despite the fact that Dreadful Wale is hardly in good repair anyway - Thomas has no way of gaining entry. He sighs and heads for the deck; perhaps the air will help clear the unease settled in his stomach.

Emily’s perched on the prow of the ship, staring out at the open ocean. She doesn’t glance over when Thomas deliberately scuffs a foot as he nears, which likely means that she was aware of him as soon as he set foot on deck. It had been obvious someone - the Royal Protector, if Thomas had to bet, though he doubted anyone would be stupid enough to take him up on it - had trained her when Emily bumped into him in Campo Seta, although her skills had seemed— untested. Honed, but not tried in circumstances where her life was truly at risk.

It’s only been a few days, but she seems different; hardened and more experienced.

“Your Majesty.” Thomas dips into a shallow bow. He catches Emily rolling her eyes as he straightens up.

“You’re the only one who calls me that, Thomas.”

Hardly the response he expected, though Emily is the ship’s occupant he is least familiar with. The excuse doesn’t stop him from flailing for an answer; he settles on, “It’s your title.”

“It was.”

“It _is_ ,” Thomas insists. He can’t say why he does it; he hardly feels such concern for the King of Tyvia’s state of mind, and he’s served the man for far longer. The only reason Thomas had gone along with Emily in the first place was because he thought it was what Daud would have done, but now he finds himself— not regretting staying on the ship with Daud, not quite, but wishing he could have gone with Emily on her other missions too, if only so he could know how and why she seems so changed in a few short days.

She hasn’t killed anyone, according to Meagan, which is and isn’t surprising. The Royal Protector hadn’t killed anyone when he restored her to the throne, but he also hadn’t had his mother murdered before his eyes at a young age. But if she managed to spare Daud, the man who’d murdered her mother, perhaps her decision to spare others isn’t truly a surprise.

“That other agent you mentioned,” Emily says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Anna.”

Thomas stiffens. “What about her?” Hypatia hadn’t known of her fate when Thomas asked, and Daud had only remembered speaking with her once.

Emily hesitates. “I think I found her body at the Royal Conservatory.”

The base of Ashworth’s coven of witches. Thomas flinches. “Was she—” he falters, but pushes on, “—tortured?”

Emily nods. “She had a tattoo, the mark of an Operator, on her—”

“—lower back,” Thomas mutters. He turns away to look out at the ocean, though with night fast-approaching there isn’t much to see. Anna is - was - one of his best agents; when she said she’d found a lead on the Crown Killer in the wake of Kozlov’s murder, he hadn’t thought twice about sending her after them. The last report she’d sent had said she made contact with Daud, but the man seemed strange; it had arrived a month and a half after she penned it, and Thomas had waited to hear more before realizing nothing was forthcoming.

Even if he had left as soon as he’d received that report, it was already too late, but that does little to assuage his guilt.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Emily scowls. “You’re always with Daud. He has enough to worry about.”

Thomas blinks at her, barely managing to stop himself from gaping, which only seems to raise her ire.

“I can tell him if you really—”

“No! No. Thank you,” Thomas says hurriedly. He clears his throat and casts about for a suitable topic. “What were you going to tell me before about Paolo and the Jindosh Lock?”

Emily’s expression shutters completely, which is not the reaction he was aiming for at all. “Nothing.”

“If you really don’t want to talk about it, I won’t bring it up again,” Thomas says. “But I did promise to help you. Lending an ear is better than nothing.”

Emily slants him an annoyed look. “So you can tell His Majesty, King of Tyvia?”

Thomas winces. He’d almost forgotten Daud had mentioned Thomas’ role; Emily hadn’t brought it up until now. “Of course not.”

“So you’d lie to your liege? Is that supposed to make you seem more trustworthy?”

This topic is hardly better than discussing Anna’s fate. Thomas scrambles for a reply, aware as he says it that it sounds entirely patronizing and will likely only make him appear less trustworthy. “As the Empress of the Isles, you are the liege of my liege—”

Emily snorts, pressing the back of her covered hand against her mouth before she dissolves into laughter. Thomas can only stare. Was she— teasing him?

“Ha. The look on your face,” Emily says at length, a smile still on her own. “I didn’t think you could look anything other than blank or concerned for Daud.”

Thomas schools his face into blankness once more, a bit appalled that he’d let his guard down enough for it to show. “I live to serve, Your Majesty.”

Emily rolls her eyes again, but her expression sobers a few seconds later. “I found out how Delilah came back in Stilton’s manor. Her followers performed a seance and summoned her from the Void three years ago, but her return left a hole into the Void that distorted - is still distorting - time there.”

“So you could change—”

“I _did_ change some things,” Emily says. “But Delilah’s return is fixed.”

“What did you change?” Nothing is different but— Thomas wouldn’t necessarily be aware of the changes effected by Emily’s actions.

“Stilton participated in the seance and witnessing it fractured his mind. This morning, Batista was a wreck that its inhabitants called the Dust District being fought over by the Howlers and the Overseers. Stilton’s manor was a ruin infested with bloodflies. Meagan was less an eye and her right arm; she lost a fight with some Grand Guards when she went to check on Stilton after the seance.”

Thomas resists the urge to go find Meagan and see for himself that she’s uninjured, but he can’t keep himself from glancing at Batista. All he can see from here are the lights of the district and the hulk of the wind tunnels overhead. “But Stilton’s the one who told Meagan that the Duke and his cronies had done something in his study.”

Emily shakes her head. “I investigated his manor because I kept seeing silvergraphs of him in Jindosh’s mansion and it seemed like Stilton’s disappearance had let the Duke have his way with the city. I thought Stilton had tried to oppose him or something similar. And today - three years ago - I knocked him out before he could participate in the seance, preserving his mind and leading to what you know now.”

Thomas is the one shaking his head now, not because he thinks she’s lying but— it’s a lot to take in.

Emily doesn’t look happy, for all that she has tangible evidence that she’s changed Karnaca for the better. She fakes a yawn and claims exhaustion, bidding him a good night that he distractedly returns before she disappears below deck.

* * *

The next night, Emily returns from the Palace with the shred of Delilah’s spirit that, apparently, allows Delilah her immortality, and Luca’s body double installed in the Duke’s place.

They set out for Dunwall the next morning, but a small boat intercepts them before they can enter the canal.

“More Whalers?” Emily mutters, but she merely crosses her arms and watches the new arrivals warily as they board the Dreadful Wale.

Thomas hasn’t seen Rulfio and Rinaldo since they left Dunwall almost fifteen years ago, though he’s kept up a correspondence with them. Bastillian’s intrigues aren’t of particular value to the Tyvian Crown, but that’s not why Thomas keeps in touch with them.

“Oh, you’re here too, Thomas?” Rinaldo grins at him. “We just heard the Dreadful Wale was docked here and came to say hello to an old—”

“—traitor?” Thomas deadpans, silently apologizing to Meagan. She _did_ betray them, but that’s all in the past now and he doesn’t truly hold it against her any longer.

“Is Daud here?” Rulfio cuts in.

Thomas heard him come out of the cabin last night, but he let Daud be; he hasn’t seen the man since he retreated after the cooking sausage incident.

Rinaldo’s grin disappears so fast it must have been fake. It’s a little disturbing to realize that Thomas doesn’t know his former comrades well enough to read their expressions any longer. “You don’t actually think Daud was involved in Sylvio’s disappearance, Rulfio.”

Thomas doesn’t flinch, but Emily does, shifting slightly when she hears the name.

Rulfio notices, of course he notices, and stalks over to her. “Where is he. Where is Daud—”

“Rulfio, Outsider’s eyes, that’s the Empress—”

Rulfio shakes off Rinaldo’s arm and grabs her lapels when Emily says nothing. “ _Where is he_.”

Thomas is halfway across the deck before he quite makes the conscious decision to move, but Emily slaps Rulfio’s hands away before he reaches them. “He’s right there,” she says coldly, pointing.

Daud’s standing at the top of the stairs, a tightly-controlled expression on his face. After days of close quarters, Thomas can reliably say that Daud’s on the verge of losing it, but he’s trying to maintain his composure.

Sylvio. The boy that had followed Daud out of Cullero and, according to Rulfio, who had pieced it together from the boy’s account, probably saved Daud from dying of sepsis on the road to Bastillian. Thomas knows firsthand that Daud has always had a weakness for orphans in unfortunate circumstances, but either Daud genuinely believed he couldn’t help the boy beyond raising him to a life of crime, or had convinced himself it was true, and he had departed Bastillian before he could become too attached, leaving Rulfio and Rinaldo to care for him.

“Where’s. Sylvio,” Rulfio grinds out as he stalks over to Daud.

“I—” Daud’s voice cracks.

Sylvio. One of the people Daud had killed that anguished him the most.

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” Rinaldo whispers.

“I killed him.”

Thomas sees the hit coming, so there’s no way that Daud doesn’t see it too, but he merely grunts and staggers back a step when Rulfio rears back and punches him in the face. Dimly, he hears Rinaldo’s knees hit the deck, but it’s difficult to focus on with the sound of Rulfio’s fists striking Daud’s flesh.

Emily hauls him off Daud a few seconds later, smoothly blocking Rulfio’s blow when he rounds on her. When he goes to try again, she pins him to the deck.

“Get off of me!” Rulfio snarls, twisting, trying to throw her off or get enough leverage to escape the pin. “Let me go— Let—” His voice breaks on a sob and the fight goes out of him.

* * *

It’s early afternoon by the time they set out for Dunwall, Meagan stomping up to the wheelhouse to pilot the ship after threatening to throw the next brawlers overboard. Sokolov patches Daud up despite his protests, sending Thomas to bring Rulfio and Rinaldo some bandages for Rulfio’s hands.

He finds them curled up in the room that Thomas had claimed for himself the past two nights, Hypatia’s former cabin, clutching at each other on the bed. They don’t even acknowledge him which— is fine. He doesn’t know if he could meet their red-rimmed eyes, or what he could possibly say to them in any case. Thomas leaves the bandages behind and retreats back to the common area.

“You should have let him kill me,” Daud’s saying to Emily when Thomas joins them, which is just— Thomas is too wrung out to muster a protest to that, even though it’s so wrong, but Emily doesn’t seem so affected by the story that had come out involving Sylvio and Daud and the Crown Killer.

“Is that what Sylvio would have wanted? The man who raised him avenging him by killing the man he idealized?” Emily is surprisingly calm, but she and Sokolov are the only ones without any real stake in this particular drama; they were never Whalers.

Daud flinches. “We’ll never know what he wanted.”

“He wanted to help you, like you wanted to help me.”

Each word hits its mark, Daud’s shoulders tightening with every one. “Shut up!” Daud snarls, baring his teeth; a wounded animal lashing out. “Shut up, you don’t know— you don’t—”

“Who would your death help?” Emily asks, unfazed.

“Rulfio—”

“You just want to die so you don’t have to deal with what you’ve done.”

“Emily,” Sokolov starts, frowning, but she ignores him.

“The only one you’d be helping if you died is yourself.”

Daud drops his eyes, but not before Thomas sees the moisture welling up in them. “Are you done?” he demands gruffly.

“I am,” Emily agrees and stalks out, brushing past Thomas without a glance.

* * *

Emily heads into Dunwall alone, piloting the skiff away without looking back.

“Do you think she can do it?” Rulfio asks, leaning against the railing to watch her disappear down the docks. It’s the first time he’s spoken to someone other than Rinaldo since they left Karnaca.

“If she can’t, no one can,” Thomas mutters. He has complete faith in her, but Delilah somehow _crawled out of the Void_ to usurp the throne. Apparently one of the qualities of a Kaldwin Empress is terrifying determination, and he honestly can’t say who will come out ahead when they’re pitted against each other.

“She’ll do it,” Meagan says.

But they all wait with bated breath until the announcements of Emily’s return ring out over the water.

“Where are you heading next?” Rinaldo asks as the city seems to stir back to life before their very eyes.

“Tyvia,” Meagan says. “Anton wants to go back and someone got himself appointed Tyvia’s Spymaster—”

“What?!” Thomas only has time to shoot Meagan a glare before Rinaldo rounds on him. “Outsider’s eyes, I can’t believe you didn’t tell us. You’ve been using me and Rulfio for information, haven’t you.”

“No! I couldn’t put that I’d been appointed on paper,” Thomas protests.

“That’s why you use a cipher, Thomas, are you sure you’re really the Spymaster of an entire nation?” At least Rinaldo seems to have recovered his questionable sense of humour. Or else he’s coping by making jokes. Neither alternative is particularly attractive, but at this point Thomas doesn’t think he can complain.

“We’re coming too,” Rulfio says flatly. “I don’t want— I can’t go back to Bastillian.”

“All right,” Thomas says; how can he refuse? He’ll find work for them, or support them out of his own pocket. His salary from the Crown is ridiculous, and he lives frugally - the past few months trying to track down Anna and everything else notwithstanding.

“Just drop me off at the next port,” Daud mutters to Meagan, though not so quietly that the rest of them don’t hear.

“No, you’re coming with us too,” Rulfio says with surprising vehemence.

Daud looks startled, then wary. “The Empress seems convinced that killing me won’t solve anything.”

“I don’t want you _dead_. I mean, right now I do, you’re being a fucking idiot, but—”

“No fighting,” Meagan warns. “Anton won’t patch you up again.”

Rinaldo claps a hand over his partner’s mouth. “What Rulfio’s trying to say is, we want to keep an eye on you! Between the four of us, we should be able to keep track of one old man, right?” He looks expectantly at Thomas and Meagan.

Thomas pretends not to notice the shattered expression that crosses Daud’s face or the uncertain one on Meagan’s. “I have a minor title in Tyvia, actually. Nice estate. Decent-sized manor.”

“What, no wife to make an heir to carry on the family name?” Meagan smirks when Thomas glares at her again.

“Who cares about that, I want to know if the roof’s intact,” Rinaldo puts in.

“It’s been fifteen years, shut up about the damn roof!” Daud growls.

“We should stop by Rudshore for old time’s sake,” Rinaldo says, as if he hadn’t even heard Daud.

“Rudshore’s restoration was completed several years ago,” Thomas can’t resist pointing out.

“Delilah burned down Parliament,” Rinaldo dismisses. “Who knows what other damage the city has sustained in the last two months? And even if the Chamber of Commerce is all fixed, we can knock a few holes in the roof and pretend it was her. No one will ever know!”

“Let’s not,” Thomas deadpans. “I can knock a hole in the roof over yours and Rulfio’s room, how’s that.”

“I don’t know, it’ll be snow getting in so it won’t be quite the same—”

“Are you staying with us this time?” Rulfio asks Daud. His tone isn’t quite civil, but the hostility is toned down.

Daud hesitates for so long that Thomas thinks he’s actually going to refuse despite the fact that he obviously wants to stay. At length, he nods. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “Yes, I’ll stay with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's done. finally.
> 
> thank you so very much to everyone who has stuck around to read this fic to the end. I hope you enjoyed it. thank you for commenting and leaving kudos and crying with me about Crown Killer!Daud. <3


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